
Book.__ : r 

Copyright N^ 1_l 

CQEOUCKT DEPOSIT. 



THE GIPSY TRAD. 



By 

ROBERT HOUSUM 




SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Su, New Yofk 



I 



THE 

GIPSY TRAIL 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 



BY 
ROBERT HOUSUM 



Copyright, 1917, by Robert Housum 
Copyright, 19:i0, by Samuel French 



All Rights Rcscrz'cd 



CAUTION : Professionals and amateurs are hereby 
warned that "THE GIPSY TRAIL," being fully pro- 
tected under the copyright laws of the United States, 
is subject to royalty, and any one presenting the play 
without the consent of the author or his authorized 
• agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. 
Applications for the amateur acting rights must be 
made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St., New 
York. Applications for the professional acting rights 
must be made to The American Play Company, 33 
West 42nd St., New York. 



New York : 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Publisher 

28-30 West 38th Street 



London : 

SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd 

26 Southampton Street 

Strand 






J^ 



■e 






Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this 
book without a valid contract for production first hav- 
ing been obtained from the publisher confers no right 
or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the 
play publicly or in private for gain or charity. 

In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading 
public only and no performance of it may be given 
except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 
28-30 West Thirty-eighth Street, New York City. 

Section 28 — That any person who wilfully or for profit 
shall infringe any copyright secured by this act, or 
who shall knowingly and wilfully aid or abet such in- 
fringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, 
and upon conviction shall be punished by imprison- 
ment for not exceeding one year, or by a fine or not 
less than one hundred nor more than one thousand 
dollars, or both, in the discretion of the court. 

Act of March 4, 1909. 



JUL 30 1920 

©uLu 551 41 



TO MY FATHER 



ARTHUR HOPKINS 

presents 

"THE GIPSY TRAIL" 

A 191 7 Romance 

By RORKRT IIOUSUM 

Staged by Arthur Hopkins 

CAST 
(in order of appearance) 

Frank Raymond Robert Cummings 

Miss Janet Raymond Katharivr Emmet 

John Ra^'mond Frank Longacre 

Stiles Charles 1 1 anna 

Frances RA^'MO^•D Phoebe Foster 

Edward Andrews Roland Young 

Michael Ernest Glendenning 

Mrs. Widdimore Ejfie Ellsler 

Ellen Loretta Wells 

Act I. The Raymond Place 
Act it. The Andrews Place 
Act hi. The Raymond Place 



CAST 

Michael Rudder 
Edward Andrews 
Frank Raymond 
John Raymond 
Stiles 

Frances Raymond 
Mrs. Widdimore 
Miss Janet Raymond 
Ellen 

SYNOPSIS 

Act I. Veranda of Frank Raymond's summer 
home at Kirtland, Ohio. 
An evening in early June. 

Act II. Room in Edward Andrews' summer cot- 
tage, "The Breakers," on the Lake 
Shore Boulevard. 
An hour and a half later. 

Act III. Same as Act I. 

A month later. 

The following is a copy of the playbill of the first 
performance of "The Gipsy Trail" at the Plymouth 
Theatre, New York City, December 4, 1917. 



The Gipsy Trail 



ACT I 

*ScENE : The scene represents the side veranda of 
Mr. Raymond's summer home at Kirtland, a 
suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, on a moonlit even- 
ing in early June. 

The veranda is formed by a platform, raised 
some four inches alwve the level of the stage. 
Betzveen this platform and the proscenium is a 
space about three feet wide, representing a path- 
way. At the rear of the veranda ri.ses the wall 
of the house, which is of pink stucco, zvith ivhite 
trim. 

Tins wall is pierced in the center by a wide 
doorway, open, with double screen doors that 
swing outward. Through this doorzvay may be 
seen the plain brown wall of the hall, which is 
brightly illuminated ; a chair and table on the 
right; and a telephone on a small stand on the 
left. 

In this 7vall there are, to the right of the cen- 
ter door, three ivindows; and, to its left, tzvo — 
all hung inside with thick lace curtains. A 
dim light may be seen, through these curtained 
zi'indozvs, inside the house, but it is impossible 
to distinguish figures. 

The right and left side-walls of the veranda are 
formed by zvhite lattices, covered zvith vines. 
At the point zvhere these reach the edge of the 

* See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. 

7 



8 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

veranda, tlicy turn at right angles and extend 
off to right and left. The roof of the veranda 
is supported by two large zvhite pillars, zvhich 
are set dozvnstage, to right and left. A large 
dome-light in the center of the veranda ceiling 
casts a soft glow. 

Against the rear wall, to the right of the center 
door, is a settee, and to the left of this, a tahor- 
ette. There is a similar settee to the left of the 
center door. A small round table stands up 
left. Dozi'ii center is an ottoman, and, to the 
left of it, a small divan, placed irregularly. A 
chair, facing left, stands at the left of the right 
pillar. All the furniture is made of gray wick- 
erzvork, upholstered in gay cretonnes. 
Note: "Right" and "left" are throughout 
"right" and "left" of the actors, not of the audi- 
ence. 

Before the curtain rises, a few introductory 
bars are played upon the- piano, and then the 
voice of Frances is heard inside the house 
singing "The Gypsy Trail." 

Frances. (In right) 
"The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky. 
The deer to the wholesome wold, 
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, 
As it was in the days of old." 

(The curtain rises slozvly. Mr. Raymond stands in 
front of the doorzvay center, enjoying his after- 
dinner cigar. He is an efficient-looking man of 
about forty-eight, dressed in a dark business 
suit; and he is bareheaded. Frances sings on) 

"The heart of a man to the heart of a maid — 
Light of my tents, be fleet ! 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 9 

Morning waits at the end of the world, 
And the world is all at our feet !" 

Mr. Raymond. (Calling) Frances! 
Frances. (In right) Yes, Father? 
Mr. Raymond. If you're going to that wedding, 
don't you think you ought to be dressing ? 
Frances. (In right) I've plenty of time. 

(She begins to sing again. 
"The white moth to the closing vine, 
The bee to the open clover, 
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood, 
Ever the wide world over." 

(Mr. Raymond sighs and, walking over to the settee 
on the right, seats himself and takes front his 
pocket a legal document of many pages, which 
he begins to study) 
"Ever the wide world over, lass, 
Ever the trail held true, 
Over the world and under the world 

(Miss Janet Raymond and John Raymond enter 
along the pathway from the left. Mtss Ray- 
mond is a pleasant zvoman of about thirty- 
seven, simply dressed. John is thirteen and is 
known to his intimates as "Skinny" Raymond. 
Miss Raymond, 7i'ho has her arm about him, 
speaks as she enters. Frances continues to 
sing "The Gipsy Trail" throughout the follow- 
ing scene) 

Miss Raymond. Will you do that for me, John- 



nie 



John. Yes, Aunt Janet. 

(He runs along the pathway and disappears to the 
right) 

Mr. Raymond. (Looking up, as Miss Ray- 



lo THE GIPSY TRAIL 

MOND comes up on the veranda and goes to tJie settee 
on the left, where she seats herself) Janet, I've 
got to go to town this evening. 

Miss Raymond. Oh, Frank, what a shame! 
And you've hardly been home two hours. What 
is it? 

Mr. Raymond. Simpson just got in from Chi- 
cago. He 'phoned me to meet him 

Miss Raymond. Oh, about the merger? (Mr. 
Raymond nods) Will the papers be signed tonight? 

Mr. Raymond. Probably. Unless Simpson and 
I split on details, and that I don't anticipate. (He 
looks off to the right and calls) Don't balance about 
there on the railing, John. You'll fall. 

John. (Off right) No, I won't. 

Miss Raymond. What time are you leaving? 

Mr. Raymond. A little before eight, I think. 
(The sound of a heavy fall is heard off right. 

Miss Raymond. (Starting to her feet zvith a 
cry ) Oh, Johnnie ! 

Mr. Raymond. What did I tell him? (John 
zvalks on from the right) I told you you'd hurt 
yourself ! 

John. But I didn't! (He walks to the chair to 
tJie left of the right pillar, leans against its back and 
begins to teeter back and forth) Takes more than 
that to hurt m.e. Why, the other day a red-hot liner 
caught me on the end of the finger and just smashed 
the nail all up. It was awful bloody. It would have 
bowled most fellows over — but not me ! I slammed 
it over to first and put the man out — easy. 
(The chair slips from under him and he avoids a 
fall by a miracle of agility) 

Miss Raymond. (With a nervous start) John- 
nie, dear, you make Aunt Janet so nervous. You 
don't want to do that when .she's come all the way 
from Minneapolis to pay you a visit? 

John. Aw, gee. Aunt Janet 



THE GIPSY TRAIL ii 

Mr. Raymond. (Sternly) John! 

John. Yes, sir. (Mr. Raymond returns to the 
study of the document ) 

Miss Raymond. Now, sit down quietly, dear, 
and don't worry Father. Have you learned the 
piece you're going to speak at Commencement to- 
morrow ? 

John. Yessum. 
(Miss Raymond rises, picks up the school-book 
from the table up left, and returns to the settee, 
zvhere she seats herself and o peris it) 

Miss Raymond. Then let me hear you say it. 

John. (With distaste, in a rapid sing-song ) 
"Oh, young Lochinvar has come out of the West, 
Through all the wide border his steed is the best, 
And save his good broadsword he zveapons had none. 
He rode — he rode " 

Miss Raymond. (Prompting him) "All un- 
armed " 

John. "He rode all unarmed and he rode — he 

rode 

He rode all unarmed and he rode — he rode " 

Darn it! 

(The telephone rings in the hall. 

Miss Raymond. You see, dear, you don't know 
it. 

John. I did — said it straight through to Frances 
before dinner. And I could do it now, too, if she'd 
only keep still a minute. Hi ! Frances ! Cut it 
out! (Frances continues to sing defiantly. John 
takes the book from Miss Raymond, goes to the 
chair to the left of the right pillar, sits down and 
begins to study it. Then, as Frances continues to 
sing) Aw, gee, have a heart ! (The telephone rings 
in the hall. Stiles, the house man, comes into the 
hall from the left and answers the telephone. Mr. 
Raymond looks up and listens) 

Stiles. (In the hall) Mr. Frank A. Raymond's 



12 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

residence. Yes, sir. Who is speaking, please? 
(Then with great contempt) Oh ! (He comes 
through the door center, and out upon the veranda) 
The nev/spaper office, sir. The Chronicle. 

Mr. Raymond. Thought so. Just hang up the 
receiver. Stiles. (Stiles starts to go in) Er, no — 
wait a minute. I'd better talk to them, after all. 
(Stiles opens the door for him, follows him in 
center, and goes out to the left. Mr. Raymond goes 
to the telephone) 

John. Darn it all, I don't see why I've got to 
learn this. 

Mr. Raymond. (In the hall, at the telephone) 
Frank A. Raymond speaking. No ! I told one of 
your reporters this afternoon that there was no 
truth in that merger rumor. No, I tell you — posi- 
tively, no! What was that? (Frances stops sing- 
ing) Hello! I've got nothing to say. If you send 
a reporter out, I won't see him. (He slams up the 
receiver, then comes angrily out on the veranda) 
Confound those newspapers! 

Miss Raymond. You don't want the merger 
. known ? 

Mr. Raymond. Not until the papers are signed. 

John. I thought you said over the telephone 
there wasn't any merger. 

Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) Learn your piece! 
(He returns to the settee right and picks up his copy 
of the merger. John subsides into his book. Fran- 
ces begins to sing again ) 

Miss Raymond. (Calling) Frances! 

Frances. (In right, stopping her playing) Y^es? 

Miss Raymond. Do you know it's seven o'clock ? 
If you're going to Elinor's wedding, you ought to 
begin to dress. Do stop plaving ! 

Frances. (In. right) Very well, Aunt Janet, 

(Frances appears in the hall from the right and 

comes throunh th^ center door out upon the 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 13 

veranda. She is ahoitt Hventx years old, and 
wears white tennis shoes a zcliifc skirt and a 
white middy blouse) 

Mt?s Raymond. Hasn't it cleared up beauti- 
fully? I'm so g^acl. for Elinor's sake. There's 
something; so n^essy about a rainy wedding. 

Frances. (Meditat'vely) I hope that on my 
wedding- day — if I ever have one — it will simply 
pour. 

Miss Raymond. Good gracious ! Why? 

Frances. Because then no one will come to the 
wedding — except, of course, the groom. At least, 
I hope he'll come. 

Miss Raymond. I think that's very selfish of 
you. People love to go to weddings. 

Frances. Then let them have weddings of their 
own and go to them. 

Miss Raymond. But when it gives your friends 
so much pleasure 

Frances. I shan't be getting married to give 
theiu pleasure, Aunt Janet. 

Mr. Raymond. (Looking tip with a smile) I 
hope you'll let me come, Frances. 

Frances. Well — -yes. Father, I think \ou may 
come — if you'll promise to wear vour rubbers and a 
mackintosh. _ I can't have you taking cold. (She 
goes right to the settee, sits down to th.e left of Mr. 
Raymond and puts her arm around Jiis neck) 

Mr. Raymond. (Beaming ) My dear, how am I 
going to read? 

Frances. (Coaxingly ) But you don't want to 
read,' do you, when you can talk to me in'^tead? 

Mr. Raymond. (Tossing his copy of th.e merger 
dozvn on the settee beside him and putting his arm 
round Frances) Well, no, my dear. I don't be- 
lieve I do. 

Frances. And it's so wonderful just at twilight. 



14 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

I'm vei-}- nice lo talk to in the twilight. I'm at mj 
•best then. 

John. Bill Jenkins had to wear a blue velvet 
suit when his sister got married. But he wouldn't 
put it on until they gave him fifty cents. I wouldn't 
have done it for that. 

Frances. Then we won't ask you to, John. 
Mine will be a very simple wedding — without even 
a blue velvet suit. 

Miss Raymond. When the time for it really 
comes, you'll want it big and fashionable — ^just like 
all the other girls. 

Frances. Oh, Aunt Janet, do you think I will? 

Miss Raymond. I do. 

Frances. Then I won't have any at all. 

John. But Frances, you've got to have a wed- 
ding. You can't get married without one. 

Frances. Then I won't get married. 

Miss Raymond. Nonsense! 

John. But you're going to marry Ned. 

Frances. Ned? Ned Andrews? Oh, am T? 

John. Well, that's what Father said. 

Frances. Oh, I didn't know that. And I don't 
think Ned does either. (She gets up from Mr. 
Raymond's side) Don't you think, Father, it might 
be just as well to wait until it's settled before you 
announce it? Of course I don't mind, but it might 
embarrass Ned to hear it first from someone else. 

Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) I never said any- 
thing of the kind. 

John. Oh, Father, you did so. You and Aunt 
Janet were talking in the upstairs sitting-room, and 
you thought I'd gone to bed, but I hadn't, and 

Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) Learn your piece! 

Miss Raymond. It was very naughty of you to 
listen to things that don't concern you. And besides, 
he didn't say it. 

John. (In an aggravating sing-song) Frances's 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 15 

got a beau! Frances's got a beau! Oh, Frances! 

Frances. (Laughing ) Johnnie, you little wretch! 

Mr. Raymond. John, if I have to speak to you 
again 

John. Yes, sir. (He picks np iiis book and goes 
out right along the path) 

Mr. Raymond. Frances, dear, John was mis- 
taken. I didn't actually say you were going to 
marry Ned. I only said 

Frances. Never mind, Father. It isn't only you. 
Everybody says it. Aunt Janet says it 

Miss Raymond. Why, Frances, really 

Frances. Oh, yes, you do, dear. Ned says it. 
And last week T overheard Stiles telling it to Annie 
in the kitchen — and she said it was no news to her. 
The whole town seems to have made up its mind 
that I'm going to marr-y Ned Andrews. It's unani- 
mous. (With a sigh) Ah, well, I daresay you're 
all right. Very likely I shall, some day. (She goes 
dozvn to the ottoman and seats herself, facing up- 
stage) 

Miss Raymond. Ned is certainly a model young 
man. He has a real talent for always doing the 
proper thing. 

Frances. It isn't talent. It's* genius. 

Mr. Raymond. And he's one of the most suc- 
cessful young business men in this town. 

Frances. I'm sure he must be. Or he couldn't 
afiford to send me orchids three times a week. Oh, 
I do hope he orders them by the month and gets 
them at wholesale rates. 

Miss Raymond. / think you'll be a very lucky 
girl if you get Ned Andrews. 

Mr. Raymond. But of course, my dear, I 
shouldn't want anything / said to influence you. 

Frances. Then I'll try not to let it. Still, I 
don't think you ought to tell me quite so often how 
eligible he is. I don't think it's quite fair to him. 



lo THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Miss Raymond. I don't think it's quite fair to 
him to keep him waiting, and that you'll certainly 
do if you don't hurry. You can't possibly be ready 
in time. 

Frances. For Elinor's wedding? Oh, I'm not 
going. 

Miss Raymond. I thought Ned Avas coming for 
you in his car. 

Frances. I'm afraid he still is. 

Miss Raymond. Didn't you telephone him you'd 
changed your mind ? 

Frances. How could I, Aunt Janet? I've just 
changed it. And he must have started long ago. 
He was to be here at quarter past seven. 

Mr. Raymond. (Lookiruj at his watcJi) It's 
seven-twelve now. Really, Frances, to let him come 
all the way out from town for yovi, and then not 
go 

Miss Raymond. And after he sent you such 
beautiful flowers 

Frances. And such expensive ones! 

Mr. Raymond. If you hurry, you can still make 
it. 

Frances. Dress? In two minutes? Now, 
Father, stop flattering me. 

Miss Raymond. Oh, well, he'll probably be a 
little late. 

Frances. Ah. how little you know him. I'm 
sure he'd rather die than be one minute late for an 
engagement. 

Mr. Raymond. Well, that's an admirable quality. 

Frances. Admirable. But aggravating. 

Mr. Raymond. Well, if I were Ned, I'd be per- 
fectly furious ! 

Frances. Oh. no you wouldn't. Father. If you 
were, Ned, you'd think everything I did was perfect. 
Whenever I'm horrid, he takes all the blame on him- 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 17 

self. It's very unfair of him. It makes me feel so 
guilty. 

Mr. Raymond. I should think it would. 

Frances. It does. I'm beginning to feel guilty 
already. It isn't nice of me to tease him, but you 
know I only tease people I'm fond of — and I'm 
awfully fond of Ned. Even if he is punctual. 

Mr. Raymond. (Looking at Jiis ivafch) Well, 
tonight he isn't punctual, for it's seven-fifteen now. 

Frances. But here he is — precisely on the sec- 
ond. 

(Ned 7valks on along tJie path from the left. He 
is in eveiiing dress, witli a linen automobile 
duster over his arm, and he ivears a soft hat) 

Ned. (Coming up on tlie veranda) Good even- 
ing. Miss Raymond. 

Miss Raymond. Good evening, Ned. 

(She shakes hands zvarmly zvifJi him. 

Mr. Ra^'mond. How are you, Ned ? 

Ned. (Walking over right and shaking hands 
with Mr. Raymond) First rate, thank you, sir. 
(He lays his duster and hat on the taborette right, 
and comes down to Frances ivith a pleased smile) 
Hello, Frances. 

Frances. Hello ! 

Ned. I think we'd better be starting for 

(He gazes at her blankly and stops) Why, Frances, 
you're not dressed! (Then, realising hozv this 
sounds, Jie hastois to add) For the wedding, I 
mean. 

Frances. No, Ned, I 

Ned. Great Scott! Did I tell you eight-fifteen? 
I meant seven-fifteen. Oh, Frances, I am sorry! 

Frances. Of course you said seven-fifteen. You 
never make mistakes. 



i8 THE GirSY TRAIL 

Ned. That's what I thought. But how does it 
come, then 

Frances. I'm not going to the .wedding, Ned. 

Ned. Why, what's the matter, Frances? Aren't 
you well? What a confounded shame you should 
be laid up tonight. 

Frances. Do you think I look ill, Ned? Am I 
very pale? 

Ned. You look awfully sweet. But — perhaps 
you are a trifle pale. I hope it's nothing serious. 

Frances. Ned, I am ashamed of myself. There's 
nothing the matter with me. I just decided I didn't 
want to go — and it was too late to telephone. You'll 
never forgive me — and I shan't blame you a bit ! 

Ned. Why, that's all right, Frances. I'm not 
very keen to go myself, now I come to think of it. 

Frances. Then don't. Stay here wnth me. It's 
a heavenly evening, and we'll walk down to the 
river and 

Ned. Oh, Frances, I wish I could. But I prom- 
ised Mrs. Cortright particularly I'd show up 

Frances (Dryly) Then of course you must. I'm 
sorry, too. 

Miss Raymond. Frances, you accepted Mrs. 
Cortright's invitation too, and I think you ought to 

go- 

Frances. It's too late now, Aunt Janet. It's 
'way dowm at Trinity. 

Miss Raymond. (Rising) You'll be in plenty 
of time for the reception. I'll go upstairs and lay 
out your things. Ned, make her go. (She goes 
into the hall and out to the right) 

Mr. Raymond. (Rising) Yes, Ned, make her 
go. (He follozvs her into the hall and out to the 
right. There is a moment's pause, then Frances 
looks up at Ned with a smile) 

Frances. Well, Ned, are you going to make me 
go? . 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 19 

Ned. Make yon go? No, I'm not. 

Frances. I think if yon insisted very, irrv hard, 
I might go — perhaps. 

Ned. Yon know I want yon to go. Bnt I shan't 
try to make yon. I want yon to realize, Frances, 
that if yon'll only marry me, I'll never insist on 
anything. I'll always let yon do jnst as yon please. 
I'll always 

Frances. Oh, please don't, dear. I know some 
girls like being proposed to, bnt I don't. I hate it. 
It makes me so unhappy to say "no." 

Ned. Can't yon sav "yes?" 

Frances. I can't. Oh, Ned, if T conld. T wonld — 
yon know I wonld. Bnt please don't ask me any- 
more. 

Ned. Yon like me, don't yon? 

Frances. Of conrse I like yon — yon know how 
mnch I like yon — and always have. Bnt yon're 
asking me for something more than that — and dif- 
ferent. 

Ned. I know I'm not good enough for yon. 

Frances. I won't have yon say that. It isn't 
true. That's not the reason. 

Ned. Then what is it ? I know it's my own fault, 
Frances, that there's something yon want I can't 
give you. Bnt I don't know what it is. 

Frances. And I can't tell you. Yon must find 
it out for yourself. Ned. All I can do is to give 
yon, now and then, a tiny hint. 

Ned. Have yon ever given me a hirit ? (Frances 
fiods) And I didn't see it? (SJir sJiakes her head 
slowly ) I wish I knew what it was. 

Frances. I wish you did, Ned. (She rises, looks 
at him- a moment, then goes over right and stands 
looking out through the lattiee) 

Ned. (After a pause) What are you looking 
at? 

Frances. Nothing. Just the moon peeping 



20 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

out from behind the clouds. Come here. It's beau- 
tiful. 

(Ned joins her and tJicy stand together for a mo- 
ment in silence ) 
Ned. (At last) It looks a little as if it might 
rain, but I don't believe it will — not until after the 
wedding, anyhow. 

(Frances makes «■ slight hut hopeless gesture, and 
turns away. She zcalks slozvlv back to the left, 
hunnitiiig softly "The Gipsy Trail" ) 

Ned. ( I'ollozcijig her) That's pretty. 

Frances. What? 

Ned. What }ou're b.umming. 

Frances. Do you like it? 

Ned. Yes. What is it ? 

Frances. A song called "The Gipsy Trail." 

Ned. That's right. So it is. 

Frances. (Eagerly) Do you know it, too? 

Ned. Heard it a thousand times. Old Ham Phil- 
lips used to bellow it at college. 

Frances. Do you remember the words? 

Ned. (Knitting his forehead, then shakes Iiis 
head) Funny, but I can't recall 'em to save my life. 
(Turning to her abruptly) Frances, if you were to 
give me one of those hints tonight, I beheve I'd see 
it. 

Frances. (Shaking her head) I'm afraid you 
wouldn't, Ned. 

(John enters from the rigJit along the path. He 
holds the book in one hand and is reciting in a 
sing-song, zvithout looking at it. He zvalks 
very carefully in a straight line, his eyes bent 
on the ground) 

John. 
"So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 21 

Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and 

all; 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 
word " 

Frances. Come here a minute, John. 

John. (Paying no attention to her and still look- 
ing at the ground) 

" 'Oh, come ye in peace here or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?' " 

Frances. Johnnie ! 

John. (Looking up) Huh? Oh, hello, Ned. 

Ned. Hello, Johnnie. 

John. We got your flowers, Ned. (He continues 
to recite to liimself during the next three speeches) 
"So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand " 

Frances. And I never even thanked you for 
them! They're beautiful. 

Ned. Oh, that's all right. 

Frances. Come over here a minute, John. 

John. L"^h-uh, I can't. I'm walking this crack, 
and I dassent get ofi^. 

Frances. Oh, I see. But can't you transfer? 

John. That's right, I can. Wait a sec. (He 
rings an imaginary bell) Ding! Ding! (He comes 
up on the I'eranda and joins them) 

Frances. Let me hear that verse you were hav- 
ing such trouble with before dinner. 

John. (Handing her the hook open at the place) 
All right. I got it down cold now. 

(Ned turns away, looking bored. 

Frances. Listen, Ned — he really does it very 
well. Now, John. "One touch " 

John. (With fine declamation) 
"One touch to her hand and one word in her ear. 



22 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

When they reached the hall door and the charger 

stood near, 
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 
She is won ! We are gone ! Over bank, bush and 

scaur. 
'They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth Yovmg 
Lochinvar." 

Frances. Splendid! I think you've studied 
enough for tonight. 

John. Hurray! (He tosses tJie book doivn on 
the ottoman, goes dozvn on the path and faces right) 
Well, I'm going to start now. W^ill you crank the 
car, Sis? 

Frances. All right. (She goes dozvn, kneels in 
front of him. and goes through the motions of crank- 
ing an automobile ) 

John. (After a few preliminary zvheeccs) It's 
kinder cold. I must give it a richer mixture. Now ! 
(Frances cranks) R-r-r-r-r-r ! All right, good- 
bye. (He goes out to the right, making strange 
noises, in the character of an automobile. Frances 
joins Ned again on the veranda ) 

Ned. Johnnie recites that very well. 

Frances. Ned 

Ned. Yes ? 

Frances. If you want me to go to the wedding 
very much 

Ned. Oh, Frances, I wish you would ! 

Frances. Then I will. I shan't be ten minutes. 
(She goes into the hall and out to the right. Ned 
picks up the book John has left on the ottoman) 

Ned. (Reading) 

"So light to the croup the fair ladv he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 

She is won ! We are " 

(Ned stops, and considers a moment) She is won! 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 



23 



(Mr. Raymond comes into the hall from the right 
and out upon the veranda. He seems highly 
pleased) 

Mr. Raymond. So you persuaded Frances to go 
after all? 

Ned. Yes. She's getting' ready. 

Mr. Raymond. Just a little firmness, Ned — that's 
all she needs. She has notions, but then, all girls 
have. She'll outgrow them, and— she's a splendid 
girl ! 

Ned. Yes, she is. (He hesitates a moment ) Mr. 
Raymond, there's something T want to a'^k you. 

Mr. Raymond. (SmUing) Yes. Ned? Go on. 

Ned. You will probably be quite a little sur- 
prised 

Mr. Raymond. (Roguislily ) Perhaps I won't 
be quite so surprised as you think. 

Ned. Before I ask you, I want to say that I 
think you have known me long enough 

Mr. Raymond. My dear boy, Fve known you 
all your life — I'm very fond of you — there is no 
one I'd rather have — in fact, Fve been hoping for 
some time that- — Now, what is it you want to ask? 

Ned. Tf T hope to win Frances, Fve got to be a 
Lochinvar. Mr. Raymond, I want your permission 
to kidnap your daughter. 

Mr. Raymond. What ! 

Ned. I want to kidnap Frances. 

Mr. Raymond. Ned, are you crazy? 

Ned. (Rather pathetieally ) It isn't that I want 
to do it. She wants me to. 

Mr. Raymond. Wants you to kidnap her? Did 
she say so ? 

Ned. Oh, not in so manv -words. But she 
dropped a hint — and of course T got it immediately. 

Mr. Raymond. But what for? I don't see any 
sense in it. 



24 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Ned. Well, neither do I, if it conies to that, 
But you know Frances is sort of — I don't know — 
romantic 

Mr. Raymond. Oh, I know. 

Ned. And if she wants to be kidnapped, she shall 
be — if I can bring it about. 

Mr. Raymond. Ned, I'm surprised at you. I 
always thought you were so steady. 

Ned. I'm surprised at myself. I never knew I 
was so reckless and impulsive. But it's the only 
way for me to win her 

Mr. Raymond. And all this time I was hoping 
she'd really accepted you. 

Ned. You were? (Wr. Raymoi<sd nods) Then, 
Mr. Raymond, help nie. I know I can win her if 
you'll just let me kidnap her. 

Mr. Raymond. Don't keep harping on that insane 
idea. 

Ned. But it's my only chance ! And it would 
be so easy. My car is here — we'd start off together, 
supposedly for the wedding. But we wouldn't go 
to the wedding at all. Confound it, I'll break my 
engagement at the Cortright's. We'd go to "The 
Breakers" — my place on the lake shore. Ellen, my 
old nurse, is out there, you know. Probably we'd be 
back tomorrow. 

Mr. Raymond. (Froivning) Tomorrozv? 

Ned. Old Ellen's there, you know. It will be all 
right. 

Mr. Raymond. (Shaking his head decisively) 
No, Ned. Forget it! (He goes into the hall, and 
ant to tJie right) 

Ned. But (He stands a moment watching 

Mr. Raymond, then, with a hopeless shrug of his 
shoulders, follows him into the hall and out to the 
right. After a moment's pause Michael enters 
along the path from the left, riding on a bicycle 
■which he brings to rest against the lattice at the 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 25 

right of the veranda. He is a young man of about 
twenty-nine zvearing a shirt with a soft collar, a 
wrinkled suit of rough material and a battered felt 
hat. Without hesitation he zvalks up upon the ver- 
anda to the center door and rings the bell to the 
left of it firmly and for some time. Presently Stiles 
comes into the hall from the left and comes to the 
door) 

Michael. Mr. Raymond home? 

Stiles. I will inquire. And who shall I say? 

Michael. Mr. — Jones. 

Stiles. Jones? 

Michael. Jones. 

Stiles. Mr. Raymond doesn't know any Mr. 
Jones. 

Michael. Doesn't he? Well now, that's odd. 
I should have thought he would. 

Stiles. If you're the man from The Chronicle, 
Mr. Raymond won't see you. 

Michael. How lono^ have you been with Mr. 
Raymond ? 

Stiles. About three years. 

Michael. Ah, yes. Then you wouldn't know. 

Stiles. Wouldn't know what ? 

Michael. I suppose you never heard of his lon_2^- 
lost son ? 

Stiles. Long-lost son ! Why — there's just blas- 
ter John. 

Michael. Master John ! A younger brother ! 
Good heavens ! 

Stiles. You don't mean to say you're Mr. Ray- 
mond's long-lost son? 

Michael. There! And I didn't mean to let it 
out! 

Stiles. And am I to tell Mr. Raymond his long- 
Ibst son has come home ? 

'Michael. Well, you must use your own judg- 
ment about that. The shock may be very great — ^ 



25 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

and I couldn't take the responsibility. Do as you 
tbiUk best. But I must see him. 
(Stiles stares at him a moment, but Michael meets 
his look without flinching, and after a moment's 
hesitation, Stiles goes out to the right. Mich- 
ael chuckles, and walks over right to the settee, 
where his eye is caught by the copy of the mer- 
ger which Mr. Raymond has left lying there. 
He picks it up, glances at it, tuhistles with sur- 
prise, then lays it dozun again on the settee. 
After a moment Mr. Raymond comes into the 
hall from, the right, and out upon the veranda) 
Mr. Raymond. Good evening. Are you my long- 
lost son ? 

Michael. Your man seemed to think I was. 
But then, he may be mistaken. 

Mr. Raymond. Of course he's mistaken ! 
Michael. I'm glad to hear it. 
Mr. Raymond. I haven't any long-lost son. 
Michael. Are you sure? 
Mr. Raymond. Say, what is this? 
Michael. I haven't the slightest intention, of 
claiming you for a parent. 

Mr. Raymond. Then what do you want? 
Michael. (With a sudden, disarming smile) 
Well, Mr. Raymond, what I really want is the in- 
formation concerning that merger, for The 
Chronicle. 

Mr. Raymond. You're a reporter? 
Michael. Yes. 

Mr. Raymond. And you got me out here by 
lying? 

Micheal. Why not call it diplomacy? Without 
it, you wouldn't have seen me. And now, if you 

will give me the information 

Mr. Raymond. I told your office there was no 
information — and that if they sent a man out 
here 



THE GIPSY TRAIL zy 

Michael. You needn't repeat it. It was I who 
talked to you — from Mentor. 

Mr. Raymond. And in spite of that you came? 

Michael. I've been sent out to get that infor- 
mation. 

Mr. Raymond. I tell you there is no information. 
Why the newspapers can't manage their infernal 
business without the aid of lies 

Michael. Oh, it's much like any other business. 
Don't even you yourself occasionally find it neces- 
sary 

Mr. Raymond. No, sir, I do not. 

Michael. Do I understand you to say that no 
merger is contemplated ? 

Mr. Raymond. That's what I said. 

Michael. Then if I were you, I wouldn't leave 
a copy of it on my porch. (He picks up the copy 
of the merger from the settee and hands it to Mr. 
Raymond^ 

Mr. Raymond. (Irritably, after a short pause) 
Well, then, there is a merger. (He puts the copy in 
his pocket) 

Michael. So I see. 

Mr. Raymond. But as you would also see. if 
you had any sense, the fact must not come out until 
the terms are agreed upon. And yet you come here 
— (He looks at Michael and decides to change his 
tactics. He points to the chair to the left of the 
right pillar) Won't you sit down? 

Michael. Thank you. (He sits down) 

Mr. Raymond. (Taking out his cigar-case) 
Have a cigar ? 

Michael. No, thank you. 

Mr. Raymond. Now see here, my boy. I want 
you to keep this dark for me. And anything I can 
do for you 

Michael. (Rising, with a smile) No, Mr. Ray- 



28 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

mond. You won't find much bribery in m\ busi- 
ness. 

Mr. Raymond. Then you're going to make use 
of information obtained in such a way? 

Michael. I have no information. 

Mr. Raymond. Do you mean to tell me you 
haven't read that agreement ? 

Michael. What do you take me for? A busi- 
ness man? 

Mr. Raymond. Of course you've read it, and 
you'll go straight back to your office 

Michael. Oh, no, I won't. May I use your tele- 
phone a moment? 

Mr. Raymond. What for? To tell them 

Michael. I have nothing to tell them. 

Mr. Raymond. (After a pause, during zvhich he 
looks closely at Michael) Yery well. In there 
to your right. (He points to the door center) 

Michael. Thanks. (He goes into the hall to the 
telephone) Main one two, please — Hello ! Chron- 
icle? Desk, please. Hello, Jerry. Jones at Kirt- 
land on the Raymond Chemical merger. Nothing 
doing. And I resign. (He laughs) Yes, I beat 
you to it. All right, old man. 'Bye. (He hangs up 
the receiver and conies out on the veranda) That 
ought to satisfy you. 

Mr. Raymond. I beg your pardon. 

Michael. Oh, that's all right. (He starts over 
right tozvard Jiis bicycle) Good night. 

Mr. Raymond. Wait a minute. Did you resign 
from the paper? 

Michael. Yes. 

Mr. Raymond. May I ask why? 

Michael. Sure. Because, if I hadn't resigned, 
I'd have been fired in another ten seconds. 

Mr. Raymond. WHiat for? 

Michael. Failing to get the story I was sent 
out for. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 29 

Mr. Raymond. I don't want you to lose your job 
on my account. 

Michael. Bah ! Don't give it a moment's 
thought. It was a rotten job, anyhow, and I was 
getting tired of it. 

Mr. Raymond. Have you another job? 

Michael. No. 

Mr. Ra\mond. Then what will you do? 

Michael. I won't do anything for a while,. 
I've got almost fourteen dollars 

Mr. Raymond. Good heavens ! Is that all ? My 
boy, you've behaved very honorably in this matter, 
and I feel responsible for the loss of your position. 
/ will give you a job. 

Michael. What kind of a job? 

Mr. Raymond. Oh, I dare say they can find a 
place for you on the clerical force. 

Michael. Bookkeeping? Sit indoors all day 
adding up figures? Oli, no! Thanks very much, 
but I couldn't take it. 

Mr. Raymond. Why not? 

Michael. Because it w^ould bore me to death. 

Mr. Raymond. Well, when you're out of a job, 
young man, and have only fourteen dollars you can't 
afford to be particular. 

Michael. If I didn't have fourteen cents I 
wouldn't take a job that didn't amuse me. 

Mr. Raymond. Young man, I sorry to hear you 
say that. I tell you plainly, it is not the way to 
make a success in life. 

Michael. It might not be the way for you— but 
it's the way for me. I don't believe many men have 
been so successful as I have. 

Mr. Raymond. Really ? Why, wdiat have you 
accomplished ? 

Michael. I've been perfectly happy. 

Mr. Raymond. And do vou call that an accom- 
plishment ? 



30 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Michael. Rather! Don't you!' 

Mr. Raymond. No, I don't. You've beer, happy I 
Haven't you any ambition ? 

Michael. I have boundless ambition — but not 
for money. 

Mr. Raymond. I'm always suspicious of a man 
who says that ; he's usually an idler. Every man 
■ought to earn his own salt 

Michael. Right ! And that Pre done, ever since 
I grew up. I could have had plenty of soft jobs — 
jobs that you would approve of. And if I'd taken 
one of them. I m'ght by this tin^e b'' rich and miser- 
able. But I didn't, thank God ! I started fn as a 
waiter in a Childs restaurant, and since then I've 
done all sorts of different things all over the world — 
I've sounded the heights and depths of life — and 
I've had a bully time ! But I've worked, too — 
worked like a dog, at jobs that would crumple up 
some of your rising young business men in about 
thirty seconds. 

Mr. Raymond. Don't you want to do something 
in the world. 

Michael. I hat'e done something in the world ; 
quite as much, very likely, as you have. You're 
what is called a success, but it's made you a special- 
ist. You can manufacture chemicals and you can 
sell them— but what else can you do? 

Mr. Raymond. What else? 

Michael. Can you wipe a plumber's joint ? Can 
you assemble an automobile? Can you cook Chicken 
a la King? Can you climb the Matterhorn — drive 
an aeroplane? Did you ever shoot a hippopotamus 
—and would you know how to go about it? Can 
you drive an engine? Play the ukelele? Did you 
ever mine gold? Can you row a gondola — dive for 
pearls? Lassoo a mustang? 

Mr. Raymond. Why — no. 

Michael. Well, / can. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 31 

Mr. Raymond. But — but — but I don't want to 
do any of those things? 

MrcHAEL. Honestly? Then you're even worse 
off than I thought. I've sailed on a whaler, I revo- 
lutionized the sanitation of a town in Guatemala, 
for five weeks I was a general in the Army of Para- 
guay, and I've built a bridge in the Andes. That 
is one thing I'm proud of ; it was a good bridge. 

Mr. Raymond. But — great heavens! — if you're 
an engineer, why don't you keep at it? You could 
earn 

Michael. Of course I could. But, good Lord, 
man! I've built one bridge. You don't suppose I 
want to build another? 

Mr. Raymond. Oh, you're crazy ! 

Michael. No, I'm happy. I never worry, and 
there's always something new. The world is full of 
romance and adventure ; all you have to do is to go 
out and find it. 

Mr. Raymond. But you'll have to settle down 
sometime. 

Michael. Why? 

Mr. Raymond. Well, some day you'll want to 
marry, and then — 

Michael. No. I don't want to marry. 

Mr. Raymond. But you said you were romantic. 

Michael. What has marriasre to do with ro- 



mance 



Mr. Raymond. Oh, I suppose you have advanced 
ideas about that, too. 

Michael. No. Just because I said I was ro- 
mantic, you think, of course, that I'm crazy about 
women. I'm not. They play only a small part in 
romance. The main thing — it's adventure. I've 
made up my mind not to marry, and I shan't. 

Mr. Raymond. Why not? 

Michael. Because marriage means responsibil- 
ity — and I don't want responsibility. I dread it — 



22 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

I'm afraid of it — it's the only thing I aui afraid of. 
It would mean the end of all I care for. Tied down, 
forced to stay in one place, to make a position for 
your family — no, thanks ! — none of that for me. 

Mr. Raymond. Have you never fallen in love? 

Michael. (Laughing) Times without number! 
I'm always losing my head over some girl, and when 
that happens, I throw prudence to the winds and 
fly after her. But my lucky star always saves me. 

Mr. Raymond. How do you mean ? 

Michael. Once I've met her, I find I don't 
want her. She always falls so far short of my ideal 
of her. 

Mr. Raymond. You must be particular. 

Michael. I should sav I am. It's my salvation ! 
Suppose I weren't ? Where should I be now ? 
Married! 

Mr. Raymond. (Chuckling) Young man, some- 
where in your future there is awaiting you a great 
and painful surprise. Your scheme of life is inter- 
esting and I don't doubt it is amusing, but it won't 
work. 

Michael. Why not? 

Mr. Raymond. You're tiying to evade respon- 
sibility — and you can't. Run as you will, my lad, 
run clear around the world, it will catch you some 
day. And Ishen — look out ! 

Michael. "He travels the fastest who travels 
alone." I can show a clean pair of heels to plodding 
old responsibility. 

Mr. Raymond. And what about Nature? You're 
human, I suppose? 

Michael. I suppose so. 

Mr. Raymond. Then beware ! For somewh^e 
a girl is waiting for you — and when she begins to 
sing, you'll follow, my lad — you'll follow. It will 
be a rare sieht. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 33 

(Ned comes rushing enthusiastically into the hall 
from the right, and out upon the veranda, his 
face beaming) 

Ned. Mr. Raymond, I thought of the most won- 
derful way out • (Then as he sees Michael) 

Oh. excuse me. 

Mr. Raymond. Come on out, Ned, meet Mr. 

(Turning to ^Michael) Jones, is it? Mr. Andrews. 

Ned. Very pleased, I'm sure. 

Michael. How are you? 

Mr. Raymond. IMr. Jones is quite crazy, Ned. 
But otherwise he's as interesting a young man as 
I've ever met. 

Ned. (Politely) I'm sure that's only Mr. Ray- 
mond's joke. 

Michael. Oh, it's quite possible he's right. They 
told me the same thing in France. 

Ned. Oh, you've been in France? 

Michael. Yes. French aeroplane service for 
about six months. 

Mr. Raymond. You astounding man, you've 
been everywhere. 

IMiCHAEL. I'd be there yet, only — Well, when 
your plane falls seven hundred feet with you, it does 
smash you up. So they hung a war cross on me and 
sent me home for repairs. 

Ned. It must have been very interesting. I sup- 
pose you'll be writing a book about your experi- 
ences. 

Mr. Raymond. Ned, you've guessed it! (Turn- 
ing to Michael) You're going to make a book of 
your adventures ! 

IMiciiAEL. And sell it! How like — how exactly 
like a business man! Of course I shall do nothing 
of the sort. I am an amateur — an amateur roman- 
tic, I do nothing except for the fun of the thing. 



34 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Ned. I thought all romantic people wrote books. 

Michael. Judging from the literary output of 
the last ten years, I should say none of them did. 
At any rate, I don't. I am the only living American 
who has served in the French Army who. has not 
written a book. That is my one legitimate boast. 

Mr. Raymond. You should hear him tell of his 
adventures. 

Ned. I'd like to. I'd like to know a lot of ro- 
mantic things to talk about. 

Mr. Raymond. Then Mr. Jones is your man. 
But isn't Frances ready? 

Ned. Well, she said she'd only be ten minutes, 
but 

Mr.- Raymond. Ah, Jones, do you hear that? 
Patiently waiting for a capricious girl. One of 
these days, that will be your fate. 

Michael. Good Lord ! I hope not ! 

Ned. Excuse me, Mr. Raymond, but if I could 
have just a word with you before she comes 
down 

MicpiAEL. I'll say good-night. 

Mr. Raymond. No, no ! Don't go yet. I may 
be able to think of some job that would be suf- 
ficiently exciting for you. 

Michael. Afraid not, thanks. 

Mr. Raymond. You never can tell. Have a 
cigar, at least. 

Michael. Thanks. (He takes a cigar from the 
case Mr. Raymond holds out to him, goes over left 
and lights it) 

Mr. Raymond. (Turning to Ned) Now, Ned. 

Ned. Mr. Raymond — it was about the kidnap- 



pm 



Mr. Raymond. Now don't re-open that, Ned. 
Ned. But if I were to have my grandmother 
come out and chaperone us 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 35 

Mr. Raymond. Mrs. Wicldimore? She'd never 
come. 

Ned. Yes, she would. Oh, Mr. Raymond, do 
say "yes." It means so much to me. 

Mr. Raymond. (After a pause) Very well. 
But only if your grandmother will chaperone you. 
You'd better call her up and make sure. 

Ned. Right away ! (He rushes into the hall to 
the telephone ) Prospect 3072, please. 

Mr. Raymond. (To Michael) I like you, 
young man, and Pd like to do something for you. 

Michael. And I like you. But Pm afraid you 
can't. 

Ned. (At the telephone) Hello? Is Mrs. Wid- 
dimore there? In bed? At this hour? Yes, Kate, 
this is Mr. Edward. Vakc her up! 

Michael. Even if I took a job with you, I'd be 
tired of it in a few months and want to change. 

Ned. (At the telephone) Wait a minute, I can't 
hear you. Hello, grandma ! This is Edward. I 
want you to come right out to "The Breakers" and 
spend the night — Oh, yes, you can. Well, you can 
get dressed. Please, grandma — it's awfully impor- 
tant. Pll explain later. Oh, now grandma, you 
mustn't refuse. Wait a minute, grandma — don't 
hang up ! Pll tell you the reason — it's — it's — it's — 
Ellen — yes, my old nurse Ellen out there, you know. 
She's been taken awfully sick, and I thought if you 
would only come out. — Yes, it 7vas sudden. Pm 
at the Raymonds — they just 'phoned me and Pm 
starting for the Lake Shore at once — Then you'll 
meet me there ? Oh, thank you. T knew you would. 
Just as quick as you can ! (He hangs up the re- 
ceiver and comes out on the veranda) I've fixed it. 
She's coming. 

Mr. Raymond. There, Mr. Jones, is an example 
of real business efficiency. 

Ned. Yes, T think I did that rather well. 



.36 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

(Stiles enters the hall from the left zvith Mr. Ray- 
mond's hat and overcoat. He comes out on the 
veranda) 

Stiles. Wilson is at the front door with th? 
car, Mr. Raymond. (He helps Mr. Raymond on 
with Jiis coat, hands him his hat and goes into the 
hall and out to the left.) 

Michael. I see you don't even need a chauffeur. 
I might quahfy for that. I have excellent references 
somewhere. 

Mr. Raymond. Can't I g-ive you a lift into town? 

Michael. No, thanks. (He points to his bicycle, 
leaning against the lattice) I have a chariot of my 
own. I bovight it in Mentor for three dollars and 
a quarter — and I got stung. Good night. I hone 
the merger is a great success. (He goes over to the 
right, picks up his bicycle and zvalks off zvith if 
along the path to the right) 

Mr. Raymond. Well, good night. (Then, turn- 
ing to Ned) Good luck, Ned. (He zvalks along the 
path off left ) 

Ned. Good night. (The telephone rings, Mich- 
ael zvalks on again from the right, pushing his 
bicycle, and brings it to rest again against the right 
lattice) Hello, what's the matter? 

Michael. (Kneeling dozvn and investigatinq) 
Oh, a flat tire. Thought I'd bring it back here under 
the light and try to fix it. 

(Stiles enters the Jiall from the left and goes to the 
telephone) 

Stiles. (At tJie telephone) Mr. Andrews? Just 
a minute, please. 

Ned. (Starting for^ the liall) I wonder what's 
the matter? (He goes into the hall and takes the 
telephone from Stiles, zvlw goes out to the left. In 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 37 

the meantime Michael sets to zvork zinth a small 
pump to locate the puncture) Hello? Grandma? 
You can't come? Why not? Oh, but see here, 
Grandma, you've got to come. Hire a taxi ! Oh, 
well, then, if you insist, I'll come for you myself. 
(He hangs up the receiver and comes out on the 
veranda) Doesn't that beat the dickens? 

Michael. What's wrong? 

Ned. Oh, these drunken chauffeurs. 

Michael. What's the matter? 

Ned. I've got to drive my grandmother. I don't 
know what to do ! Say, can you drive a car? 

Michael. Has it got four wheels? 

Ned. Why, of course it has. It's a Packard. 

Michael. Then I can drive it. 

Ned. I thought I heard you tell Mr. Raymond 
you'd been a chauffeur. Well, I'll engage you for 
tonight. 

Michael. I'd like to know something about the 
job first. Is there any fun in it? 

Ned. You're to — well, kidnap a young lady — 
Miss Raymond. 

Michael. Say on. 

Ned. You're to drive my car up here, tell her 
I've been unexpectedly called to town, and that you 
are going to take her to Mrs. Cortright's, where I'll 
join her later. 

Michael. And then? 

Ned. But you don't take her there at all. You 
drive her to "The Breakers," my place on the Lake 
Shore Boulevard. It's next door to the Bainbridge 
place, just beyond Coit road. Do you know it? 

Michael. I can find it. 

Ned. In the meantime, I'll borrow Mr. Ray- 
mond's roadster, go get grandma and meet you 
there. Now how much would you want to do it ? 

Michael. A kidnapping with a grandmother 
thrown in ? 



28 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Ned. Yes. 

Michael. Appeals to nothin^^ but my sense of 
humor. Can't take the job. 

Ned. Oh, come on ! Please do. I'll ^ive you 
fifty dollars. 

Michael. (Laughing ) Not for fifty thousand. 

(Frances comes into the hall from the right, and, 
opening the screen doors, comes half ivay out 
on the veranda. She is in evening dress) 

Frances. I'll be ready i.i just a minute, Ned. 

Ned. All right, Frances. Don't hurry. 

Frances. I've just to g-et my coat. (She goes 
out to the r'ght. She has not seen Michael, 
but he stands staring after her) 

Michael. Is that the girl you want kidnapped? 

Ned. Yes. Won't yoit help me out? It's my 
only chance ! 

Michael. Oh, well, rather than spoil the party, 
I'll do it. 

Ned. Oh, that's splendid. Now come with me 
to the garage — quick ! (He picks up his hat and 
duster and hastens out alone/ the path to the left. 
Michael follozvs him off. They have scarcely dis- 
appeared when Frances comes into the hall from 
the right, ivearing an ez>ening zvrap, and comes to 
the door) 

Frances. Ned ! (She looks about, and sees that 
he is gone) 

Miss Raymond. (In right) Are you going, 
dear? 

Frances. Ned's getting the car. (She goes in to 
the right. She is presently heard at the piano and 
begins to sing ) 

"The wild hawk to the wind-swept skv. 
The deer to the wholesome woVI, 
And the heart of a mm to t'le heart of a maid," 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 39 

(Michael walk.': d from the left, wearinci a linen 
duster. He ivalk.s up 07i the feranda. and stands 

listenhirj ) 

"As it was in the days of old. 

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid — 

Light of my tents, he fleet ! 

Morning waits at the end of the world 

And the world is all at our feet !" 

(The singing stops and Frances comes into the hall 

from right and out upon the veranda. She stops 

suddenly, as she sees Michael) Well, what is it? 

Michael. Mr. Andrews' chauffeur. Miss Ray- 
mond. Mr. Andrews has been suddenly called to 
town on important business, and borrowed Mr. 
Raymond's roadster. He wished me to give you his 
apologies. 

Frances. What a perfect shame ! 

Michael. He left instructions to drive you to 
Mrs. Cortright's, where he will join you himself very 
shortly. 

Frances. Oh, very well. Good night, Aunt 
Janet. 

Miss Rayjiond. (In right) Good night. Have 
a nice time. 

Frances. (Turning to Michael) By the way, 
has Mr. Andrews discharged Donald? 

Michael. Donald did not meet Mr. Andrews' 
present requirements. 

Frances. Oh. (She zvalks out left along the 
pathzvay. Michael follozcs her off. Just as !ie 
disappears to the left, John enters from the right 
along the pathzvay, reciting aloud ) 

John. 
"Oh, young Lochinvar has come out of the West, 
Through all the wide border his steed is the best, 
And save his good " 

The curtain falls 



ACT II 

Scene: The scene represents a room in Edward 
Andrezvs' summer cottage, "The Breakers," on 
the Lake Shore Boulevard. The entrance door- 
zvay is in the right zvall, ivell dozinistage. A 
portion of a small entrance-hall may be seen 
beyond it. There is a door in the rear wall and 
another in the left zvall, both very near the 
upper left corner of the room. When these 
doors are opened, a slight glimpse may be had 
of the rooms beyond. The upper right corner 
of the room is completely cut off by a large 
windozi', through zvhich one gets the effect of 
the sky on a moonligJit night. 
Near this zi'indozv is a table, zvith a fezu books 
upon it. A long table stands against the rear 
zvall, zvith tzvin lamps placed at each end. 
There is an armchair dozmi right and another 
one dozvn left ; and a long, lozv, upholstered seat 
is placed zvell dozvnstage, a little to the left of 
center. 

When the curtain rises the room and entrance- 
hall are brightly lighted. The stage is empty. 
Ned may be heard off right. 
Ned. Now, you see. grandma, it wasn't such a 
bad trip after all. (Ned comes in right, wearing 
his duster, and supporting Mrs. Widdimore, a slen- 
der and beautiful old lady, dressed in a heavy coat, 
■with a veil about her head) Here we are and every- 
thing is all right. 

40 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 41 

Mrs. Widdimore. Everything is not all right. 
The trip was frightful. You skidded four times, 
and I'm chilled to the marrow. 

Ned. There, there, there, grandma ! 

Mrs. Widdimore. Nothing but Ellen's illness 
could have induced me to venture out this damp 
evening. 

Ned. Now just a few steps more to that nice 
easy chair 

Mrs. Widdimore. Don't clutch my arm ! I'm 
not an invalid. Go away ! (She motions him azvav, 
7ii'alks to the armchair dozvn right, settles herself, 
then turns to Ned) Now what's the matter with 
Ellen? 

Ned. (Hesitating) We-ell, grandma — I'll just 
run the car into the garage first ; then I'll explain. 
(He starts for the door right) 

Mrs. Widdimore. Does the doctor think it's 
serious? 

Ned. The doctor? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Edward Andrews, do you 
mean to tell me that you haven't had a doctor for 
that poor, faithful old creature, wdien she's so des- 
peratel)^ ill? 

(Ellen enters through the door in the rear — a hale 
and hearty old ivoman) 

Ellen. Oh, Mrs. Widdimore and Master Neddy. 
I thought I heard the automobile. How wonderful 
well you're looking. 

(Ned takes off his duster and places it, ivith his 
hat, on the table by the zvindozv up right) 

Mrs. Widdimore. Ellen, whv aren't vou in 
bed ? 

Ellen. In bed? Me? With you and Master 
Neddy coming? 

Mrs. Widdimore. (WHo has been scanninci her 



42 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

face closely) Well, you don't look sick. Edward 
Andrews, what is the meaning of this deception? 

Ned. Now grandma, don't excite yourself. 

Mrs. Widd-imore. Look at her! (Pointing to 
Ellen) The very picture of health! And you 
tell me that she's desperately ill. 

Ellen. Mef Why, Master Neddy, where could 
you 'a-got such a notion ? 

Ned. (Feebly) It was just a joke, Ellen. 

Mrs. Widdimore. It was a bare-faced lie. 

Ned. Ellen, bring grandma a glass of sherry. 

Ellen. (Starting for the door in the rear) 
Well, some folks has odd ideas of jokes. 

Mrs. Widdimore. I quite agree with Ellen. 

Ellen. (Stopping at the door in the rear, and 
turning) Master Neddy, what time is the young 
lady coming? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Young lady ? Ah ! I begin to 
see a light. 

Ellen. I want to know, because of supper. 

Ned. I've been expecting her every minute. 

Ellen. I telephoned to the Country Club for 
some ice-cream 

(Ellen goes out through the door in the rear. 

Ned. Now, grandma — see here. 

Mrs. Widdimore. You need explain no further, 
Edward. 1 see you've been trying to make me a 
chaperone under protest. Oh, why did I leave my 
room? There I lay, comfortably propped up with 
pillows, enjoying the company of "The Three Mus- 
keteers " 

Ned. Who are they? 

Mrs. Widdimore. (Tartly) It's a book. Now 
take me home to my nice warm bed, and allow me 
to resume my interrupted adventures with D'Ar- 
tagnan. (She rises ) 

Ned But grandma ! This is serious. I'm in love 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 43 

with Frances, I want to marry her. And if you 
don't stay 

Mrs. Widdimore. You want to marry zvhof 

Ned. Why, Frances Raymond. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Frances Raymond ! . Oh, that 
would never do — never in the world ! (She crosses 
over to the left) 

Ned. Don't you like her? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Of course I like her. She's 
a very sweet child. But no more fitted to be your 
wife — No, Edward, I most decidedly object to your 
marrying her. 

Ned. But why? 

Mrs. Widdimore. She's almost as conventional 
as yoii are. We'll find some nice, romantic boy for 
her — if such a thing- is to be found in these days, 
when all the young- men are playing the stock- 
market instead of the guitar. And yon shall marry a 
romantic girl. 

Ned. Well, Frances is romantic. She's the most 
romantic girl I ever saw. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Frances Raymond? Roman- 
tic? Edward, you're a fool. 

Ned. She is, too, romantic. Why, grandma — 
she wants to be kidnapped, — by some man. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Of course she does. 

Ned. Of course? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Every girl wants to be kid- 
napped some time in her life. / wanted to be kid- 
napped. 

Ned. You, grandma? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Don't gape at me, Edward. I 
wasn't born with spectacles and white hair. I was 
a headstrong girl once, and — I can say it now — a 
very lovely girl. I longed to be kidnapped 

Ned. By grandpa ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Don't ask impertinent ques- 
tions. (She sits down in the armchair down left ) 



44 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Ned. Well, / have kidnapped Frances Ray- 
mond 

Mrs. Widdimore. Bravo, Edward ! I begin to 
entertain hopes of you. 

, Ned. Now you see you've got to stay. Mr. Ray- 
mond wouldn't let me kidnap her unless you came 
too. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, you don't mean to 
tell me you went to Frank Raymond and asked his 
permission. 

Ned. Of course I did. I had to. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, you will be the death 
of me yet — you really will. (She loosens her coat 
and takes off her veil) 

Ned. Ah, then you're going to stay? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Nothing could induce me to 
go. I wouldn't miss this for a million dollars. 

Ned. That's splendid. (Looks at his zvatch) It's 
nearly ten, and they must have left the Raymonds' 
before eight. I don't see what's keeping them. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Edward ! You didn't let 
someone else do your kidnapping for you ? 

Ned. I had to — a fellow named Jones I picked 
up there. Mr. Raymond knew him — he's a chauf- 
feur. 

Mrs. Widdimore. You entrusted the girl you love 
to a strange chauffeur? 

Ned. Well, not exactly a chauft'eur, either. He's 
one of those romantic chaps you're always talking 
about. He's sort of an adventurer. 

Mrs. Widdimore. An adventurer? Don't stand 
there blinking at me in that aggravating way ! Don't 
you realize that he's probably kidnapped her in good 
earnest ? 

Ned. Good heavens ! You don't think tJiat, do 
you? 

Mrs. Widdimore. They're probably half way to 
.Buffalo by this time. (Ned seizes his hat and duster 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 45 

from fJic table 11 p right) Where are yon going? 

Ned. After them. 

Mrs. Widdimore. But, Edward, it's a wild-goose 
chase. 

Ned. Never mind. I'll get track of them some- 
how — I'll see the police. 

Mrs. Widdimore. I almost think you had better. 
Oh, Edward, w^-'y did you undertake this? It 
would be dreadful if 

Ned. And you're the one who wanted Frances to 
marry a romantic man. Well, I hope voii're satis- 
fied. ' 

Mrs. "\AAiddimore. Oh, Edward, hurry ! 

Ned. I'm off. I wish I'd never tried the thing. 
It's been more trouble than a dinner of twenty 
covers. (He goes out right. Presently tJie sound of 
an outomobile engine is heard, then it dies away) 

Mrs. Widdimore. (Calling) Ellen! 

(Ellen appears at the door in the rear, with a 
glass of sherry on a tray) 

Mrs. Widdimore. I don't want that. There 
won't by any supper party, Ellen. 

Ellen. And why not ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. There won't be anyone to eat 
it. Miss Frances is lost, and Edward is out search- 
ing the highways for her. 

Ellen. Oh, dear! And the supper all but 
cooked. 

Mrs. W^iddimore. Then you eat it. And you 
may as well go to bed, for there's no telling when 
Edward will be back. 

(Mrs. Widdimore goes out left, closing the door be- 
hind her. Ellen turns out all the lights in the 
room by a switch zvhich is at the left of the 
door in the rear. The room is now lighted only 
by the moonlight seen through the large zcindow 



46 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

up right; and by a light from the small en-' 
trance-hall to the rights which falls upon the 
' ortuch.air down r'ght. Ellrn goes out the 

door in the rear, closing it behind her. A brief 
pause. Tlicn the sound of an approaching au- 
tomobile is heard, and presently Michael en- 
ters th'^ doorway right, carrying Fran^ces in his 
arms) 
Frances. Let nie go ! How — how dare you? 
Put me down ! 

Michael. Certainly. (He places her in the arm- 
chair down right, zvhere the light from the entrance 
hall falls full upon her. Her opera cloak falls back 
ttpon the chair) I'm sorry I had to carry you, but 
since you wouldn't walk (He shrugs his shoul- 
ders)* 

Frances. Wh — where am I ? 
Michael. You are "somewhere in Cleveland." 
I can't be more definite. (He takes off his duster 
and places it, imth his hat, on the table by the win- 
dotv lip right) 

Frances. Just wait until Mr. Andrews hears of 
the disgraceful way you've acted ! Oh, I've never 
been on such a ride in my whole life — in and out 
of parks, back and forth across viaducts — oh, and 
when I think of the way you skidded around cor- 
ners ! No wonder I was dizzy ! No wonder I lost 
all sense of direction ! No wonder I haven't the 
remotest idea where I am ! 
Michael. I counted on that. 
Frances. I don't believe you went less than 
forty miles an hour from the time we started. I 
saw five policemen take your number. 

Michael. Never mind — it isn't my car. But 
wasn't it a glorious ride? 

Frances. I was frightened to death — and yet, 

* See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 



47 



somehow — I wasn't, either. You drive wonder- 
fully. 

Michael. Thank you. 

Frances. It was a perfectly beastly ride. I'm 
furious about it. And as for Mr. Andrews — he'll 
discharge you, see that you lose your license — and 
I hope he'll have you arrested 

Michael. He can't. 

Frances. Why not? (Michael smiles btif does 
not answer) Why not? (Still Michael does not 
answer. Frances rises) Aren't you Mr. Andrews' 
chaufifeur ? 

Michael. I wondered how long it would be be- 
fore you guessed that. 

Frances. (Frightened) I want yots to take me 
to Mrs. Cortright's immediately. 

Michael. I regret more that I can say that my 
instructions forbid it. 

Frances. Who gave you these dreadful instruc- 
tions ? 

Michael. The gentleman who is employing me. 

Frances. Who is he ? 

Michael. That will develop in due course. For 
the present, I have no more to say. 

Frances. Well. I have a great deal more to 
say. I want you to go out and start that car and 
drive me to the Cortrights' imvnediately. (Michael 
does not move) Do you hear what I say? 

Michael. Yes. 

Frances. Will you do it? 

Michael. No ! 

Frances. Very well, then. (She takes a step 
tozvard the chair on zvhich her opera cloak is lying. 
As she does so Michael leans forivard and picks 
up the cloak) 

Michael. Are you going? 

Frances. Yes. You wouldn't dare keep me here 
by force. 



48 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Michael. Of course not. May I ask zvhcre you 
are going ? 

Frances. To Mrs. Cortright's. 

Michael. And where is that? 

Frances. Well, I — I don't exactly know. But 
I'll find it. If you won't tell me, others will. 

Michael. I'll tell you this — it's a long walk. 

Frances. I don't intend to walk. I've driven 
Mr. Andrews' car before — and I can drive it to- 
night. 

Michael. (Putting Jiis hand in his pocket and 
drawing out tzvo or three nuts which he sliows her) 
I don't think even / could drive it without these. 

Frances. Then I'll walk. 

Michael. I strongly advise you not to. The 
roads hereabouts are not only lonesome, they're 
muddy. They would be hard on high-heeled slip- 
pers — and I shouldn't like to see your charming 
frock all streaked with mud. 

Frances. Will you give me my things? 

Michael. No. 

Frances. \\'on't you please give them to me? 

Michael. No. (Again he sJiakes Jiis head. She 
sits down rather suddenly, in despair, and buries 
her face in her hands. Michael starts forzvard in 
consternation) You're not going to cry? 

Frances. (Sitting up angrily and stifling a sob) 
Certainly not ! I'm not that sort of girl. 

Michael. (Heartily and much relieved) I was 
sure you weren't. 

Frances. (Tr\ing very hard to keep her voice 
from trembling) Perhaps you'll have the goodness 
to explain 

Michael. Certainly. I've kidnapped you. 

Frances. W'hy? 

Michael. You asked me just now who had em- 
ploved me. I can't tell you his name. But this I 
will tell you : he is a man who adores you. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 49 

Frances. And yet he sends his chauffeur for 
me instead of coming himself, and is late to his own 
kidnapping. I don't think he sounds very promis- 
ing. 

Michael. You speak lightly of a man's devo- 
tion. 

Frances. Devotion ! He has chosen an odd way 
of showing it. 

AIiCHAEL. Does it really seem so strange to you 
that a man should grasp at any method — even this 
one — of meeting you, being with you 

Frances. But surely he might meet me without 
kidnapping me. There are so many simpler ways of 
obtaining an introduction. 

Michael. And if none of them were open to 
him? If this were his one opportunity? Are you 
going to blame him for seizing it when it means so 
much to him • 

Frances. (Rising) Who is this man you are 
speaking of? Not — not 

Michael. And if I zvcrc the man (He 

cliecks himself and assumes a lighter tone) But of 
course I'm not ! Alerely his agent. I should never 
have presumed to kidnap you on my own account. 

Frances. I don't think you w'ill perish for lack 
of presumption. Who are you? You don't talk 
like a chauffeur. 

Michael. At least I drive like one. You can't 
expect everything. 

Frances. And so this man I have never met 

Michael. And perhaps you have met him. Per- 
haps you have chatted with him often, lightly, of 
this and that. But how can you truly know a man 
whom you meet only in the stilted whirligig of con- 
ventional functions — with whom you merely dine 
and dance and golf? Don't you understand that he 
cannot display his deepest and most sacred feehngs 
at a tea — that he shrinks from baring h's soul 



50 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

amidst the flighty chatter and tin-pan music of a 
modern ball-room — and that when he comes to lay 
his life at your feet, he seeks a time and place in 
keeping with his mood ? 

Frances, (hi a low tone) Yes. I do under- 
stand. 

Michael. That is why he has had you brought 
here — far from the feverish bustle of the city — here 
where the calm of perfect peace can sink into your 
heart — and where the low plashing of the waves may 
play a soft accompaniment to his words. Where 
he can speak to you of realities, not shams — of life 
and love, no longer stale with sordid custom, but 
fresh and vigorous and bracing — as they were m 
the morning of the world. 

Frances. Are there such men? 

Michael. Any moment he may be here. Listen ! 
Listen carefully. And when, far off on the road, 
you hear the muffled throbbing of an engine, like 
a fast-beating heart, think that your fate has come 
whirling out of the darkness upon you, with all the 
terror and splendor of a storm racing across the 
lake. 

(Ellen enters through the door in the rear and 
sivUches on the lights, illnnilnating the room 
brightly. Frances is half blinded by the sud- 
den light) 

Ellen. Miss Frances! So you got here after 
all? I thought I heard someone moving about. 

Frances. (Looking about her) \Miy, it's Ellen! 
And I'm at "The Breakers !" Why — why — why — 
then the man you were speaking of, the man who 
had me kidnapped — Ned? (Michael bozvs. She 
sinks into the armchair down right in great disap- 
pointment) Oh, dear ! Ned ! Oh — it must have been 
that wretched poem. The poor, blundersome old 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 51 

darling. (SJie begins to laugh, and continues, grozv- 
ing almost hysterical. Michael joins her) But 
where is he? 

Ellen. His grandma will explain. 

Frances. His — grandma? (SJie begins to laugh 
again) 

Ellen. Mrs. Widdimore, Miss. She's just in- 
side, and it will be a blessed relief to her to set eyes 
on you. Your poor pa, too — he's been so worried 
he's telephoned twice for news of you. 

Frances. Father! How did he know? 

Ellen. Oh, he was in it, too, Miss. Master 
Neddy would never have taken such a libe^-ty with- 
out his consent. 

(Ellen goes out through the door in the rear) 

Frances. But imagine him conspiring with Ned 
to have me kidnapped. 

Michael. You see. Miss Raymond, you need 
have no fear. It is a perfectly proper and domestic 
kidnapping, with all the comforts of home. 

Frances. (She rises, taking her cloak zvith her, 
and speaks angrily and reproachfully ) Was it 
really such fun to make me believe that wonderful 
story you told me? Oh, you did it very well, and 
if it's any satisfaction to you to know that I be- 
lieved it — I did. 

Michael. Why are you angry? 

Frances. You dragged all my foolish, secret 
fancies out of their hiding-place, and made fun of 
them. You built up before me a lovely, impossible 
dream — and laughed when it was broken. And yet 
you ask why I am angry. I think that's dull of 
you. 

(She goes out door left. Michael smiles, hums 
"The Gipsy Trail," zvalks tozvards door. Mrs. 



52 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

WiDDiMORE comes into the room. She has re~ 
moved her coat and veil) 

Mrs. Widdimore. So you're Edward's adven- 
turer ? 

Michael. (Bozving) Good evening-, ma'am. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Let me look at you. (Mrrn- 
AEL comes over to her) H'm. Do know that Ed- 
ward's out scouring the countryside for you? 

Michael. (Placing tJie armcha'r dozvn left for 
her) Allow me ! 

]\Trs. ^^■TnDm^RE. (Looking at him ctirioiisix and 
sitting dozvn) Thank you. Do you know that we 
had made up our minds that you had carried Miss 
Raymond off to parts unknown ? 

Michael. That would be a strange thin.g for a 
chaufifeur to do. 

Mrs. WinnnrnRE. You a chaufifeur? Nonsense. 

Michael. Yes — a chaufifeur — hired bv your 
grandson for the evening. But since I've pbced the 
young lady safely in your hands, my work is over. 
I'll be going. 

Mrs. \\'iddimore. You'll remain — to entertain 
an old woman who hasn't talked to your I'ke for 
many a long year. 

Michael. You're very kind, and no one is more 
suscejitible to flattery than I am, but T must leave 

this place (He glances apprehensively tozvard. 

the door left through zvhicli Frances disappeared ) 
The sooner the better. 

Mrs. Widdimore. You'll rot be so rude as to 
disappoint a lady, Mr. Jones. Your name is Jones? 

Michael. Yes, ma'am — Davy Jones. 

Mrs. \\'iddtmore. Rubbish ! That's not your 
name, and nothing like it — and you can put that in 
your locker, Mr. Davy Jones. 

Michael. (With a suspicion of Irish accent) 
Sure, ma'am, you have the discernin' eye. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 53 

Mrs. \\'iddimore. I have. You're Irish? 

Michael. (Lapsing into broad brogue) I am 
that! My grandfather, God rest his soul, came over 
from County Clare in the days gone by. 

Mrs. Widdimore. I know he did. And I'll tell 
you his name. (SJic leans over and n'hispers in his 
car. He starts back in great astonishment) 

MiCTTAEL. Sure, 'tis a witch y'are ! (He sits 
down on the long, low seat) 

Mrs. \\''iddimore. I was sure of it ! You come 
like an answer to a prayer. For while I never 
knew until now that you existed, you are the one 
person in the world I most wanted at this particular 
minute. 

Michael. But how in the world did you ever 

Mrs. Widdimore. I knew him. And I recog- 
nized you — let me see — one-third by your voice, 
one-third by your smile, one-third by instinct — and 
one-third 

]\I:CHAEL. \\'hat ! Four thirds? 

Mr . \ViDDiMORE. Nonsense, ^^'hat do people 
like you and me care for the mathematics ? We live 
in a sort of fourth dimension, and know that the 
impossible is true. 

Michael. God be good to you, ma'am, but sure 
'tis a luxurious feelin' it gives yc 1 to be meetin' 
someone who speaks your own language. 'Tis 
like seein'the Stars and Stripes floatin' on a whaler 
in Bering Sea, after many wearyin' days of waste 
ice and green water. 

Mrs. Widdimore. You don't find many who 
speak that language. 

Michael. It's precious few of us there are, 
ma'am, and we scattered here and there over the 
mighty surface of the revolvin' world. 

IVIrs. Widdimore. That's because it is a dead 
language — as dead as Greek or Sanskrit — the lan- 
guage of romance. Are you quite sure you are not 



54 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

your own grandfather, wandered back from the long" 
ago? 

Michael. I'm not sayin' I'm not, for there do 
be many things hid in the heart of the world that 
are past man's findin' out. Mel)be you're right, 
an' I wish it were so, for I'm thinkin', from the 
gh'nt in your eye, you had a kindness for him 

Mrs. Widdimoke. You're very like him. I was 
fond of him, and at one time it seemed as if he 
and I 

Michael. (After a pause) An' now it's him 
I'm pityin' from the depths of my heart, for you 
must have been a grand woman entirely when the 
youth was in you, an' he must have had black hours 
a-plenty — an' him losin' you. 

Mrs. Widdimore. The black b.ours were not all 
his. Like you, he went walking the world — and 
oh, my friend, the world was worth walking, in 
those day.s — not bleak and grey as it is today. 

Michael. (Impatiently ) Never was an age so 
full of romance as our own. For now we can wan- 
der in a year over the whole wide world. The 
earth's a playground so full of bright nc" toys that 
you can play from early morning until you drop 
asleep from very weariness — -and the shelves still 
full, beyond your power to ransack. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Is it never lonely in your play- 
ground ? 

Michael. Yes — sometimes — at dusk, or when 
the sun goes down crimson and the sky is flecked 
with little pufify clouds. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Ah ! Then you haven't found 
your playmate ? 

Michael. (Harshly) I'm not looking for her, 
I don't want her. 

Mrs. Widdimore. I don't believe you. 

Michael. There are no girls nowadays who 
could lead the l.'fe / love. Now von (With a 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 55 

quick change to Irish hlariiey) Ah, ma'am, sure ^n' 
had I but known you when yoti were young-. (He 
rises ) 

Mrs. WinDTMORE. Stop flattering an old woman 
when there's a young one in the house. 

Michael. An' I'm more in love with you this 
minute than any woman ever I clapped eyes on. 
Sure, 'tis only the deep an' fearful respect I have 
for ye keeps me from pickin' yovi up in my arms 
this minute an' runnin' away with you. 

Mrs. Widdtmore. (Her eyes tzvinklhu/) Well, 
don't ask your grandmother to chaperone us. 

Michael. (Laughing } I will not. then. (He 
sits down again ) 

Mrs. Widdimore. And don't tell me you are not 

hunting for the girl who 

Micpiael. I tell you the girl I want doesn't exist. 
Time and again I've thov:ght I've found her — but 
I've been mistaken — always. 

Mrs. Vv'iddtmore. But still you keep on search- 
ing. And that's what brought you into poor Edward's 
tea-and-toast adventure — because you thought 

that Frances Raymond 

Micpiael. Mrs. \\'iddimore ! I assure you that 
such an idea never once occurred to me! 

Mrs. Widdimore. Go on with vour conventional 
phrases! You talk like a cotillion leader. Then 
what did bring you into it? 
Michael. Curiosity. 

Mrs. Widdimore. In the spring a young man's 
fancy lightlv turns to thoughts of — curiositv? 
Rubbish ! ' 

Michael. Sure, now I k}iozi.' 'tis a witch y'are, 
an' if I had holy water by me I'd sprinkle it on 
you, the way I'd cee you turn into a lovelv, proud 
queen, wid a cruel heart and sea-cold eyes. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Ah, it would take more thr-i 
holy water, my friend, to do that. And so ,v • 



56 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

think Frances Raymond is the girl to share your 
glorious pilgrimage? 

Michael. She comes nearer it than any girl I've 
ever seen. (He rises. 

Mrs. Widdimore. (Accusingly) You're in love 
with her. 

AIiCHAEL. No, I'm not — not yet. But if I stay 
here — if I see much more of her — oh, I must get 
away at once ! 

Mrs. Widdimore. (Taunting him) You're 
afraid to stay. 

Michael. I admit it. I'm afraid of her — and 
I'm beginning to be afraid of you. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Of me? Why? 

Michael. Even the best of women are born 
matchmakers. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Of course we are ! But the 
match / am bent on making is between Frances and 
my grandson. Have you forgotten that he wants to 
marry her? 

Michael. I wish he would ! Then / couldn't. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Then stay pnd help me bring 
it about. Poor Edward, he would a-wooing go, but 
heighho, says Rowley — he'll lose her if we don't 
help him. 

AIichael. How could I help? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Stay and see. 

Michael. (Weakening ) Of course I should like 
to — and I'd feel much safer with that girl securely 

married and out of my reach, but (He looks 

apprehensively off towards the door left) No, no! 
I think I'd better go. (H'^ starts to the right) 

Mrs. "V\'iddimore. (Softly) Oh, but you're not 
a bit like your grandfather. 

Michael. (Stopping) All right, I'll stay. But 
on one condition. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Are you going to disappoint 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 57 

me? Am I a huckster, that you should start bar- 
gaining ? 
(The sound of on approaching automobile is heard. 

Michael. (Firmly) On one condition. (With 
a return of his blarneying manner) That I may sit 
next you at table. 

Mrs. Widdimore. (With a smile) Irish! Is 
that a compliment to me — or are you only trying to 
escape temptation ? 

Michael. Sure, an' it's both. 

(Ned hastens in through the doorway right) 

Ned. (As he sees Michael) Oh, you're here, 
are you? What have you done with Miss Ray- 
mond ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. She's here, safe and sound, 
making herself tidy in my room. 

Ned. Then everything's all right? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Absolutely. 

Ned. Thank heaven for that ! I've been so 
worried — and all the time the kidnapping was a 
success after all. What did she say? Was she 
thrilled ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Frightfully. 

Ned. That's good. \\'hew ! I'm dead to the 
world. (He takes off his duster and places it, xtnth 
his hat, on the table by the window up rigJit. Then 
he comes doium to IMichael) Say, Avhere did you 
go? 

Michael. Weil, pretty nearly everywhere, I 
think. 

Ned. I should say you did. Every policeman I 
stopped had a story of a car tearing through town 
at about sixty miles an hour, and they all had my 
number, too. That's how I traced you back here. 
W^hat did you do that for? 

Michael. Surely you did not wish ]\Iiss Ray- 
mond to know where she was being taken ? 



58 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Ned. Well — no. I suppose not. 

Michael. Exactly. So it was necessary to con- 
fuse her. I did it. That's all. 

Ned. Yes, but see here. I've four summonses 
to appear in court tomorrow morning. 

Michael. I didn't think you would wish me to 
spare any expense in carrying out your orders. 

Ned. Well, I guess it's worth it. And you did 
a good job, though you gave me a fearful fright. 
(He takes money from his pocket) Here's your 
fifty dollars. 

Michael. Oh, no, thanks, I couldn't. (He 
glances toward the door left) I've been paid al- 
ready — more than I bargained for — far, far more 
than I expected. 

Ned. I don't know what you mean. But I prom- 
ised you the money, and I insist 

Michael. Then present it, in my name, to the 
Society for the Relief of the Incurably Conven- 
tional. (He starts for the table up right to get his 
hat) Good night. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, invite Mr. Jones to 
stay to supper with us. 

Ned. (In a ivhisper) Why, grandma, he's — 
he's 

Mrs. Widdimore. If I've got to stay here, I 
must have entertainment. And it's been long since 
I've seen anyone who has fascinating tales of adven- 
ture to tell. Invite him ! 

Ned. Mr. Jones, please do stay. We shall be 
delighted. 

Michael. Thank you. I really ought to be go- 
ing, but 

(Y'RAi^iC'ES enters through the door left) 

Ned. (Rushing tozvards Frances, in the highest 
spirits) Hello, Frances! Awfully glad to .see you. 
Awfully glad you came. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 59 

Frances. (Smiling and shaking her head at him) 
Oh Ned ' Ned ! What will you do next ? 

Ned You can't say I didn't see this hint, Frances. 
Tust Uke that fellow in the poem— Lochmvar— or 
i hatever his name is. Now you're here, let's have 
runner. I'm famished. (Frances begms o laugh 
^fdl joined by Mrs. Widdimore and^ Michael) 
I don't see anything so darned funny about it. 

Frances. Oh, don't you, Ned? When I thmk 
of vour asking father's permission — - (^^e oe- 
;i/sZla"cgh%ain) Poor darling! Did he really 

sav vou might? . , . , 

Ned Yes, he did. When I promised to provide 

chaperones. Ellen's out here too, you know. 
Frances. Oh, Ned, you've been lavish ! 
Ned. (Disappointed) You don't care for it, do 

^°Fr^nces. I think it was very sweet of you to 
kidnap me, Ned. But if we expect to throw rice at 
the iSde and groom, we ought to leave at once for 
Mrs Cortright's. , . , r -i 

Ned. (Inadiscoiiragedtone) The thing s a fai - 
ure-oh, yes it is. I suppose we might as well call it 

°^MiCHAEL. Surely you're not going to surrender 
at the first repulse. That's not the way to win a 
tirl If you let her go now, you'll lose her forever 

Frances. Ned, surely you're not going to let 
that man interfere in our affairs with his ridiculous 
susfsrestions. . , , , 

Mrs Widdimore. I think he's said the only sen- 
sible words I've heard tonight^ MrrTTAFi ^ 

Ned. Do you really, grandma? f To Michael) 

What do you think I ought to do? 

Michael. See the game through to a finish. 
Show her that you are the stronger— if you are. 
^ Frances. Ned, are you going to disobey me? 



6o THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Michael. You've never disobeyed her in your 
life, have you ? 

Ned. No — I don't think I have. 

Michael. Well, you see the result. Try firm- 
ness. 

Ned. (A smile slowly coming oz'cr his face) By 
Jove, I have a good mind to. (He turns to France's 
with an assumption of authority) Frances, you 
can't go. 

Frances. Do you really mean, Ned, that you are 
going to refuse to take me ? 

Ned. (Obviously frightened at his daring) I — 
I — yes. 

Frances. Ned, it's impossible to be really angry 
with you — but this makes me wish I could. 

Ned. (Protesting) Oh, Frances ! 

Michael. Don't be so down ! She doesn't mean 
it. 

Ned. Oh, I hope not. I'm sure you'll feel dif- 
ferently when you've had some supper, Frances. 

Mrs. Widdtmore. Then you'd better tell El- 
len 

Ned. All right. I will. Just a lamb cutlet, and 
a little salad, or something — I'm rather peevish my- 
self when I'm hungry. 

(He goes out through the door in the rear. 

Mrs. Widdimore. ]\Iy dear, let me present the 
most charming man I've met in— forty years. Mr. 
Davy Jones. I think I can depend upon him to 
keep you amused. 

Michael. I really ought to go. 

Mrs. Widdimore. But you won't. (She goes 
out the door left) 

Michael. (After a moment's pause) Miss Ray- 
mond 

Frances. (IVithout looking around) Yes? 

Michael. I know you're angry with me. And^ 
I don't blame vou if vou believe — but on mv honor 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 6i 

I never, for a siiii^jle histant, had the sh'g^htest inten- 
tion of making fun of you — ^or of what you call your 
fancies. 

Frances. But- that romantic story you told me — 
it wasn't true, yoti know. 

Michael. It was true — every word of it. It may 
have been a litt''e confused, for half the time I was 
speaking of Andrews 

Fraxces. It didn't sound a bit like Ned. 

Michael. — and half the time of myself. I did 
seize this method — the only one open to me — of 
getting to know you — of speaking with you 

Frances. And v\diy did you make Xed keep me 
here? 

Michael. Because I didn't want you to go. 

Frances. Please don't be polite to me. I'm so 
tired of polite men. 

Michael. You shouldn't have sung "The Gipsy 
Trail." 

Frances. "The Gipsy Trail?" 

Michael. Yes, — the trail I've followed for eight 
happy years — years so short that they've slipped 
by me like a summer's afternoon — years packed to 
the full with joy and freedom and adventure. And 
when you sang, I heard it all in your voice — your 
longing and homesickness for that same trail 

Frances. You guessed all that? 

Michael. I knew then that you were thirsting 
for the clear stars over your head — the fresh wind 
blowing keen into your face — the smell of earth in 
the sc|uashy spring-time, when you splash ankle- 
deep through wet fields — all those old, pagan joys 
that dwellers in the city have forgotten. 

Frances. No one ever guessed before. 

Michael. You see we two belong to that small, 
happy company who love life and the open better 
than the stuffiness of modern convention. And so 
I couldn't pass you by as if we were strangers, with- 



62 THE GIPSY TRAFL 

out n word — without at least calling; out to your 
■"Hail, brother !" — before the road divides and we 
lose each other on our separate ways. 

Frances. And have you really wandered all over 
the world — perfectly free — whenever and wherever 
your fancy called you? 

Michael. 
^'Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done, 
For something' in my 'ead upset me all, 
Till I 'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good " 

Frances. (Capping the quofation eagerly) 
"An', out at sea, be'eld the dock lights die, 
An' met my mate — the wind that tramps the world." 

(A little pause. 
Oh, tell me what it's really like to be a wanderer! 
(She sits in the armchair down left) 

Michael. Early some morning, with the damp 
mist clinging to your clothes, you slip out of har- 
bor in a trim little trading schooner, to plow your 
path southwestward toward the islands of the sun- 
set. Then follows day after day of heavenly mo- 
notony, broken now and then by sudden, violent 
squalls. And it seems as if you'd been born on the 
deck of that schooner, and would die there in a thou- 
sand years or so — and you don't care — you don't 
care for anything, so long as you can lie there, and 
breathe the soft, warm air, and watch the mongrel 
crew, and the Chinese cook, with his yellow face 
pasted on the pale blue background of the sky. And 
the languor of the tropics sweeps over you like a 
great wave 

Frances. I've always wanted to go there ! 

Michael. At night, you gaze upward, and watch 
the march of strange constellations across the alien 
sky. Until at dawn there comes up out of the sea a 
fairy ring of waving palm-trees, where child-like 
natives greet you with unfamiliar fruits, and civili- 
zation falls from you like a useless garment. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 63 

Frances. I could spend my life there! 

Michael. Ah, but unless you break the flowery 
chain that binds you, you will float the rest of your 
life away in listless ecstacy. And so, one day, you 
strike north ! — half a world away, where energy 
creeps back to you, and the muscles ache for action 
— where great, bare mountains of jagged rock tower 
upward, until they seem to pierce the sky. And long 
ere daylight, while the world still lies asleep under 
its coverlid of snow, we venture out, shivering, and 
begin the long ascent. And as we wind upward, 
still in darkness, morning strikes the mighty crags 
above us, and they flash and glitter in the sunlight 
like the fabled castle of Valhalla, where the old 
Norse gods sit feasting. Then we rope ourselves 
together for the climbing — just we two in the huge, 
empty world — bound together irrevocably — trusting 
ourselves utterly to each other's courage. 

Frances. I don't think I should be afraid — with 
you. 

Michael. (Coming close to her) Or we're gal- 
loping, side by side, through rugged, broken country, 
with night coming on fast behind us. I can hear the 
thud of your horse's hoofs by mine, can see your 
face fade into darkness beneath your broad-brimmed 
hat, and our shadows scampering ahead of us in a 
mad, fantastic dance. Then we pitch our camp on 
the edge of a little wood, and heap the crackling 
branches high upon the fire against the cold. And 
we sit there, listening to the strange noises of the 
night, until there is left only a heap of glowing coals 
— and your face above them. Oh, so many, many 
nights I've sat like this alone — and missed the face 
that should have been beside me, the face of the 
comrade I've always wanted and never known — 
your face — For it's you I've been wanting all these 
years. It .is your voice I have heard calling to me 
in the winds. All my life has been one long pil- 



64 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

grima£je in search of you — and suddenly tonight — 
one moment of twihght — a girl in a doorway — and 
I knew that it was ended — that I had found you at 
last — I'll never let you go — you are mine. (Mich- 
ael's zvords die azi'ay. He looks at Frances, she 
at him. There is a long moment of silence. Her 
eyes slowly drop) Comrade! (She rises, looks at 
him, drops her eyes and sways slightly toward him. 
He takes her in his arms) 

Frances. (After a moment) I don't even know, 
your name. 

Michael. It doesn't matter. 

Frances. No. 

Michael. Nothing matters — l)ut that we have 
found each otlier ! (He releases Jier and she sits 
down) 

Frances. I always knew there was you some- 
where. And to think that this very evening — when 
they were all badgering me to marry Ned — coming 
closer and closer to me — and I never suspected — was 
the man I am really going to marry. 

Michael. (Brought back to earth by the shock 
of the word ''marry" ) You're going to — marry me? 

Frances. Of course I'll marry you, dear. But 
do you know, you have forgotten to ask me when ? 

Michael. Have I ? 

Frances. (With tender playfulness) You have. 
And I shan't tell you until you do. 

Michael. (After a pause, bravely) When? 

Frances. (Softly) As soon as you want — you 
do love me, don't you? 

Michael. (Carried away) Love you? Yes! I 
never dared let myself believe there was a girl in 
the world who saw^life as I did — who could sympa- 
thize with me in all I cared for. If I had, I should 
have gone mad for very loneliness before I found 
her. 
, Frances. I did so want to be found. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 65 

Michael. But now — Frances, will you marry me 
tonis^ht? 

Frances. Tonight? 

iiliCTiAEL. Yes. I can get a special license — 
l.row t'-e derk. And there's an old Catholic priest 
— charming old soul — he'll marry us 

Frances. You're not a Catholic? 

Michael. I'm not anything. But a priest — well, 
doii't you rather like the idea? 

Frances. I'm a Baptist, and of course I must 
be married by our own minister. 

Michael. (Somewhat dashed) Oh — all right. 
I did like the idea of a priest, somehow, but — a Bap- 
tist by all means. Well, come on. We'll find him. 

Frances. But I can't marry you tonight. 

Michael. \Miy not? 

Frances. A runaway marriage? To rush ofif 
right away — and after all. I've just met you, really 
— what would all my friends think? 

Michael. \\'hat do you care what they think? 

Frances. "V\'ell, I do. And there's my family to 
be considered. 

Michael. Your family? Yes, that's so; I sup- 
pose there is. 

Frances. Of course there is. You'll have to see 
Father — but he's an old darling! He's bought a 
lot for me right across the road from where we live 
— and he's ahvays promised to build on it for me 
when I'm married. 

Michael. A house ? What'll we do with it ? 

Frances. (Laughing ) Why, live in it. of course. 
You mustn't mind Father — he'll probably bluster 
and storm at first, because you see he doesn't know 
you yet, and say we can't be married for ever so 

long 

■ Michael. Will he say that? 

Frances. (Rising) Yes, but he won't mean it. 
(Mrs. Widdimore enters througJi tlie door left) 



66 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Oh, Mrs. Widdimore, I'm so awfully, awfully 
happy ! 

Mrs. Widdimore. My dear child, what is it? 

Frances. (To Michael) Shall we tell her? 

Oh, yes, let's ! Mrs. Widdimore (Suddenly 

stricken shy, she turns to Michael) You tell her. 

Mrs. Widdimore. It isn't necessary. I can't 
tell you how pleased I am, and I think — I knozv 
you're going to be absurdly happy. 

Fr.^nces. (Goes to her and kisses her) Thank 
you. (She turns to Michael) I'm going in to put 
my things on. I want you to take me right home 
and we'll tell Father. I won't be long. (^Michael 
takes both her hands, and looks gravelv into her 
face) What's the matter, dear? (With a sudden 
impulse, he lifts both her hands to his lips and kisses 
them. She smiles radiantly at him, and leaning to- 
wards him zvhispers) Goodbye — for a minute. 
(And then turns and goes out through door left. 
Michael stands looking after her gravely, shaking 
his head slightly. Then suddenly he turns to Mrs. 
Widdimore almost ivith a groan) 

Michael. Good Lord ! \\'hat have I done ? 

Mrs. W'iddimore. You've got yourself engaged 
— and very quickly, too. How did it happen ? 

Michael. I don't know. How do those things 
happen? I had no more idea of marriage — I was 
dreaming, that was all — dreaming aloud, of an 
ideal girl-comrade who — and then I woke up. W^oke 
up and found myself engaged to be married. \\ hy, 
I'm as surprised as you are! (^Irs. W'iddimore 
turns aside to hide a sly and triumphant smile, but 
Michael sees it and starts ) You're not surprised ! 
You knew it was coming all along. Didnt you ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. I had my suspicions. (She 
sits do"iVn at the left end of the long, lon' seat) 

Michael. I see it now : you kept me here on 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 67 

purpose. And I, like a blind idiot, thought that — - 
Yes, you planned it ! But why ? Why ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Frances and Edward w'ould 
have been w^retched together. 

Michael. She'd be a thousand times happier 
with him than with a vagabond like me. (He sits 
dozvii on the right end of the long, Jozv seat) 

Mrs. Widdimore. Nonsense ! You'll be ideally 
happy ; because you are different. There are two 
kinds of people in the world, my friend. I always 
call them after the poem in "Alice in Wonderland" 
— "The Walrus and the Carpenter." The Walruses 
are you and I, and the Carpenters are the plain, 
practical, conventional people. Frances is one. 
Edward is another. That's why they must not 
marry. But -xou—do you remember how the poem 
goes? "The Walrus and the Carpenter were walk- 
ing hand in hand." 

Michael. But it doesn't. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Oh, well, of course it doesn't. 
But it ought to. The only happy marriages are 
where a Walrus and a Carpenter walk hand in hand. 
Your grandfather and I were Walruses — and we 
both married Carpenters. That is the Law. 

Michael. I am an anarchist. I hate laws. And 
besides, this law of yours is not true. Think what 
a sheltered life she's always led. Think for a mo- 
ment what my life is like — and then imagine her 
sharing it. 

Mrs. Widdimore. You could give it up. 

Michael. Give up my life? — Do you suppose I 
could? (Mrs. W^iddimore nods) Can you imagine 
me settled down? (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Tak- 
ing her to church every Sunday morning? In a 
frock coat? (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Spending 
my evenings quietly at home — playing checkers — lis- 
tening to the Victrola — reading the Atlantie 
Monthly?' (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Going down 



•63 THR GIPSY TRAIL 

to business every single morning- of my life at half- 
past nine ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Only here they go down at 
half-past eight. 

Michael. I wonder if I could! 

Mrs. Widdimore. Love can do wonderful 
things. 

AliCHAEL. (Rising) Can it make a man over? 
And if I tried — and failed? You don't know what 
it's like when the longing seizes you — the bitter 
homesickness for some place — any place but the 
place you're in. It's in my blood — you said it your- 
self : I'm like my grandfather. 

Mrs. \\'iddimore. ]\Iy friend, you are only mak- 
ing excuses ; for in spite of your boldness and ad- 
ventures you are afraid to marry. 

Michael. I wonder if I am? 

Mrs. Widdimore. You don't love her. 

Michael. (With deep sincerity) Yes, I do love 
her. There will never be anyone else for me — I've 
been dreaming of her. for years — and now I know 
that dreaming isn't enough. I want her — her hands 
to hold, her lips to kiss 

Frances. (Off left) I'll be right in. Are you 
ready ? 

Michael. (After a pause) Yes. 

Mrs. Widdimore. (After a moment) Are you 
going to start the machine? 

Michael. I guess I'd better. 

(He goes to the table up right, picks up his hat and 
duster and goes out the doorway right. After 
a moment Ned enters th.rough the door in the 
rear) 

Ned. Where's Frances ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. (Nodding toward room to the 
left) In there. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 69 

Ned. Supper's almost ready. 

(Frances enters tJiroiigh the door left, with her 
opera cloak on ) 

Fr.-\nces. Where is lie? 

Ned. Here I am. 

Frances. I don't mean you, Ned. 

Mrs. Widdimore. He's getting the car ready. 

Ned. Why, Frances, where are you going? 

Frances. Home. 

Ned. With Jones?. Why. if you're really so set 
on going, I'll take you. 

Frances. Ned, I hardly know how to tell you: 
w^e're engaged to each other. 

Ned. (Astonished) You and Jones? (She 
nods) Why, Frances, you can't be. I never heard 
of such a thing. You hardly know him — and I've 
been in love with you for years 

Frances. He's w^aiting for me. (She starts for 
the door right, then turns back ) I'm awfully sorry, 
Ned. 

Ned. It seems awfully unfair, somehow, that he 
.should do in two hours what I've been trying to 
do for years. And it isn't because I haven't tried, 
either. Do you think that I ought to congratulate 
him, Frances? 

Frances. Well, I Jiope you can, Ned. 

Ned. All right, then. If you say so, I will. 
(The sound of an automohile engine starting is heard 
outside. Ned goes to the zvindow up right and looks 
out) Why, he's going ! 

Frances. (Laughing) Of course he's not going! 
He's coming right back. (She joins Ned at the 
zvindozv) 

Ned. No, he's not. He's turned the corner! 
Confound him! He's got my car, too. (The sound 
of tJie engine gradually dies away) 



70 THE GIPSY TRAI] 

Frances. He isn't coming back ! He's gone 
away for good ! But I don't understand — what 
does it mean ? 

Ned. It means he's no good — Take one of these 
chaps who can talk as well as he can, and ninety- 
nine times out of a hundred, they're no good. 

Frances. (Heartbroken, to Mrs. Widdimore) 
But — he cared for me — I knozv he cared for me ! 

Ned. (Angrily) Cares for himself, he does — and 
no one else. 

Mrs. Widdimore. ]\Iy dear, he did care for you 
— as far as people like him can care. For he's not 
like Edward 

Ned. No, thank God ! 

Mrs. Widdimore. But he saw what marriage 
would mean to a man like him — how it would tie 
him down — and ran away from it — as his grand- 
father did before him. 

Frances. Did his grandfather run away from 
the girl he loved ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. He ran away from nie. 

Ned. (Shocked) Grandma! 

Frances. And did he never come back ? 

Mrs. W^iddimore. Yes — he came back — as this 
boy will come back to you. But by that time I had 
married Edward's grandfather. 

Ned. Why don't you do the same thing? Marry 
me — I won't run away. 

Frances. (Half cr\ing, she turns away from 
him) Oh, Ned, don't ask me — not just now. I 
can't think of anything now — except that T hate 
him ! He never cared for me — and I — I didn't 
really care for him. I was just swept off my feet. 

Ned. I wonder how he did it? You wouldn't 
think that just a few stories of adventure would 
make such a difference to a girl. (He looks at 
Frances, very much pusded. Suddenly an idea 
strikes him and his face ligJits up zvith satisfaction. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 71 

He clears his throat slightly and bravely begins his 
recital)"^ It was in the August of nineteen twelve 
that I was fishing up in Canada, on Spider Lake, 
near Muskoka — no, it wasn't Muskoka, either, it 
was Georgian Bay. I had forgotten to provide my- 
self with one of those fishmg licenses — you know? 
— ])ure carelessness. Of course I wasn't trying to 
cheat the government — and they're only two dollars 
anyhow. And just as I hooked a fish, I looked up, 
and there was the government inspector watching 
me. Well, of course I lost the fish — it was very 
awkward for me — not having a license. And there 
was the Inspector looking at me very fiercely — and I 
suppose he had a gun about him somewhere. So he 
said to me: "Have you a license?" And of course 
I had to confess I didn't — and he said I'd better 
buy one of him. And so I did — it was the only thing 
to do — and then I'd really intended to get one all 
the time. But he overcharged me, having me, so to 
speak, in a hole 

(But loucj ere this point is reached, the curtain has 
UH-rcifuUy hidden Ned's unfortunate effort) 

* See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. 



ACT III 

Scene : The scene is the same as in Act I — the 
veranda of Mr. Raymond's summer home at 
Kirtland. It is a moonlit evening about a month 
later than Act II. 

At tlie rise of the curtain TvIr. Raymond and 
Ned, both zvearing dinner-coats, are seated to- 
gether in the settee to the right, Mr. Raymond 
to the riglit of Ned. Miss Raymond and Mrs. 
Widdimore are seated together in the settee to 
the left, Miss Raymond to the right of Mrs. 
Widdimore. Frances, in an evening frock, 
stands leaning against the right pillar, on the 
upstage side, looking off through the right lat- 
tice, paying no attention whatever to the con- 
versation. 

j\Ir. R.\^'mond. The reduction in operating' ex- 
penses — well, bet\veen you and me, the accountants 
figure it \\\\\ be not much under twenty-five per 
cent. We shall be able to scale down our combined 
office force somewhere in the neighborhood of 
sixty thousand dollars 

Ned. By Jove. I wouldn't have believed it ! I 
suppose eventually you'll tpke in the Foster plant? 

]\Ir. Raymond. Yes, they've been on the down 
g-rade for several years, and wlun the time's ripe, 
they'll be glad enough to come in. And then there 
are the Willetts people. . . . 

Miss Raymond. Aren't you men ever going to 
stop talking business? 

Ned. Oh, Miss Raymond, I am sorry.^ But 
'72 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 73 

really, what Mr. Raymond was just tellin,^ me Avas 
so extraordinarily interesting — and then I thought 
that you and grandma were probably discussing 
gowns or music or literature or — something like 
that. 

Mrs. Widdimore. As a matter of fact, we were. 
You see what happens Avhen you men leave us to 
our own base devices. 

Ned. (To Mr. Raymond) I'm afraid we've 
been remiss. (Turning to Miss Raymond) Tell 
me, Miss Raymond, did you get in town to the ten- 
nis tournament this week? 

Miss Raymond. Xo, I didn't. Frank has never 
cared for tennis, and as I didn't want to go alone 

Ned. Oh, why didn't I think to ask you? That 
was thoughtless of me. You and I and Frances 
might have gone together. I'll tell you what we'll 
do — we'll go on INIonday. I'll call for you 

Mrs. Widdimore. I wouldn't — they played the 
finals this afternoon. 

Ned. Did they? What a shame ! Well. I'll tell 
you : Ave'll go next year. Remember now — that's 
an engagement. 

Miss Raymond. Thank you. And now — (She 
rises) Ned, won't you sing for us? Frances has 
some new songs, and there is one that I'm sure 
would suit your voice splendidly. 

Ned. (Rising also) Well, t don't know that I 
am in ver\' good voice tonight — (He clears his 
throat) But, of course, I shall be delighted to try 
if you really want me to. 

Mrs. Widdimore. Yes, Ned, sing. (She and 
Mr. Raymond rise) 

Miss Raymond. (At the center door) Do you 
know d'Hardelot's 'T Hid My Love?" 

*Ned. No — No, I don't think so. That isn't in 

* See "Notes en Production," on Page 94. 



74 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

my repertoire. But I will sing "The Bandolero" for 
you. 

(He opens the screen doors center for her, and 
follozvs her in. Both go out from the hall to 
the rig lit) 

Mr. Raymond. (At center door) Aren't you 
coming, Mrs. Widdimore? 

Mrs. Widdimore. In a moment, Frank. (Mr. 
Raymond goes into the hall and out to the right. 
Mrs. Widdimore looks at Frances a moment, then 
goes up to her) My dear, what's the matter? 

Frances. Nothing. Nothing, except — it hasn't 
any right to be such a glorious evening. 

Mrs. Widdimore. I know you're unhappy^ — and 
I know why. I wish you understood him as well 
as I do. 

Frances. Him ? Who ? 

Mrs. Widdimore. Our truant adventurer. 

Frances. Yoiir truant adventurer, if you like — 
but oh, not mine. I understand all I want to about 
him — and more. 

Mrs. Widdimore. You see, I know his kind so 
well. He's never grown up, that's all. He's just 
a little boy, like your brother Johnnie — playing 
around the world. You wouldn't expect Johnnie 
to think of serious things yet. But some day he'll 
tire of play — he'll grow up — and then 

Frances. I don't care what he does. I'd — rather 
you wouldn't talk about him, please. 

Mrs. Widdimore. All right, my dear. I'll stop. 
But that won't stop you thinking about him. 

(She goes into the hall and out to the right. Frances 
remains. Presently John enters left along the 
path. He has an air rifle, and backs on, shoot- 
ing off left with it) 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 75 

Frances. What are you doino^? 

John. Firin.^ at the enemy. Their trenches are 
rio^ht over there the other side of the flower beds. 
(He points off left and shoots again) I just led 
a charo-e against them. (He mops his forehead 
tvith his sleeve) It's hot work. I hope they give 
me a war cross. What do you have to do to win it? 

Frances. I don't know exactly. But they are 
given only to the very bravest men — those who are 
absolutely fearless. 

John. Did you ever see one? 

Frances. No — but I knew a man once who had 
one. 

John. Gee! He must have been a bear! 

Frances. (In a loiv tone) He was. 

John. When I get bigger I'm going to join the 
aeroplane service. And I bet you I win a cross. 
What will you bet, Frances? I'll bet you a dime I 
do. Will you bet? (Frances nods zvith a smile) 
All right. You'll lose your bet. I'm not afraid of 
anything. 

(Ned comes into the hall from the right and out 
upon the veranda) 

Ned. Frances 

Frances. What is it, Ned? 

Ned. Aren't you going to play my accompani- 
ment? 

Frances. I thought Aunt Janet would play it 
for you. 

Ned. (He looks at Frances, zuho is not looking 
at him, for a time in silence) Perhaps I'd better 
not sing "The Bandolero." 

Frances. (Rousing herself) Oh, do ! 

Ned. (Taking her arm and leading her to the 
center door) You know, there's no one in_the world 
who can accompany me quite as well as you can. 

Frances. Come on. 



76 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

(She goes into the hall and out to the right, Ned 
following her off. John, left alone, starts off 
left in the stealthy manner of a skirmisher and 
disappears from view. Then the piano is heard 
in right and Ned begins to sing) 

Ned. (In right) 
"I am the Bandolero, 
The gallant Bandolero ! 
I rule the mountains, and T claim 
As contraband what comes this way. 
I am the Bandolero, 
King, with the sward for pillow ! 
I am an outlaw, but have a kingdom beneath my 
sway." 

*( Michael rides on along the pathwav, from left 
to right, on a tandem bicycle, and off right. He 
wears a heav\\ loose coat and a cap ) 

"An outlaw with kingdom T)eneath my sway ! 
I make mv castle of mv tent, 
■My court T hold in lonely spot," 

(Michael comes along the path from the right and 
up upon the veranda. He is very stealthy in 
his mo7'cments and evidently desires not to be 
seen. He tiptoes to the open doorway center 
and peeps in. At the same time John comes 
tiptoeing in from the left along the path, catches 
sight of him, sneaks up behind him. and, shoul- 
dering his air-rifle and pohiting it at Michael, 
holds hint up. In the meantime, Ned sings ou) 

"My army is my gallant band. 
My law enforced by carbine shot ! 
il am the Bandolero ! 

* See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL yj 



I am the Bandolero ! 
I am waiting and watching 
For ransom or outpost, 
A welcome for captive ! 
A carhine for spy ! 
Roaming the mountains 



John. Halt! Or I fire ! (^Tichael .<rfcrrfx, frini^' 
round, sees John, and zvifh a grin raises both hands) 
Come over here ! (During the follozving scene Ned. 
sing^: "The Bandolero" to the hitter end) 

Michael. Hello. I guess I'm your prisoner. 

John. (Going up to him) You bet you are. 
Are you a burglar? 

]\IiCHAEL. (Lowering his hands) No. Did you 
think I was? 

John. Yes, I did. And I'm not sure yet that 
you aren't. \^'hat do yovi want, anyhow, sneaking 
up on our porch this way? 

]\TiciiAFL. I want to see your sister. 

John. Frances? Then why didn't you ring the 
bell and send in vour card? That's the w^ay callers 
do. 

INTiCHAEL. Yes, I know, but — you have guests, 
haven't you ? 

John. Oh, yes — Mrs. Widdimore's here — and 
old Ned's on the job as usual 

Michael. I want to see your sister here alone — 
to surprise her. Don't tell anyone I was here — 
that's a good chap — and I'll come back later 
when (He starts aivay to the right. 

lOHN. (Shouldering his air-rife and pointing it 
rtf" Michael) Halt! Halt, or I'll call Father!: 
(Mtcliael stops) I believe vou're a burglar after 
all. 

Michael. Aren't you afraid of me? 

John. I ■should say I'm not. I'm not afraid of 
anything. Why, when I grow up, I'm going to be 
in the aviation service, that's what I'm going to do. 



7S THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Michael. ^ Bully for you! Then we'll be pals. 
I used to be in that service myself. 

John. You don't mean you're the fellow that got 
the war cross ? 

Michael. Yes, I'm the fellow. 

John. How do I know you're not telling- a 
whopper ? 

INIiCHAEL. Here — wait a minute, and I'll show 
you the cross — (He fumbles in an inside pocket, 
draavs it out and shows it to John) Now, hov/ 
about it? 

John. Gee! I'd like to have one of those. 

Michael. Would you? Then listen ! Get your 
sister out on the porch here — alone — and — I'll give 
it to you. 

John. Honest injun? 

Michael. Honest injun ! 

John. Cross vour heart and hope to die? 

Michael. (Crossing his heart) Cross my heart 
and hope to die. 

John. All ri^rht, I got you! Give it here. 

(He holds out his hand for the cross. 

Michael. (IVithdrazving his hand) After I've 
seen her. 

John. Nope. You've got to come across first, 
or the deal's off. 

Michael. (Laughing ) You'll get on in the 
world, my son. Shall I pin it on for you the way 
they do in France ? The way General JofTre gave it 
to me? 

John. Yes. 

Michael. Then stand up straight. 

John. (Drazvs himself up, zvith his stomach stuck 
out) Like this? 

Michael. More or less. Stomach in! 
(He pokes John in the stomach. John drfims in. 
Then Michael pins the cross on John's coat, 
shakes hands gravely with him; then he strikes 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 79 

Jiiut on each shoulder zvith his right hand, and 
finally kisses him on both cheeks) 

John. (Struggling angrily) What do you think 
you're trying- to do ? 

Michael. (Laughing) That's the way they do 
it in France. 

John. You mean to say General Joft'er kissed 
you? (Michael nods, amused) Well, what do 
you know about that ! 

(Ned, in right, Jias already finished "The Bando^ 
lero") 

Michael. (With a sudden start, listening) Some- 
one's coming. 

John. (Sneaking up to the center door) It's 
Father! Duck! Down behind those Iflac bushes! 
(He points off left) Quick ! I'll wig-wag when the 
coast's clear ! 

(Michael hastens off to the left, just as Mr. 
Raymond enters the hall from the right. He 
comes out on the veranda and dozvn to John) 

Mr. Raymond. John, go in and say goodnight 
to Mrs. Widdimore. It's your bedtime. 

John. Oh, Father, just five minutes more — 
please ! 

Mr. Raymond. Very well. Five minutes more. 
And then off you march. Now run along. 

(He sits in the settee to the left and lights a cigar. 

John. All right. (He runs off to the left. 
Presently Frances comes 'nto the hall from, the 
right and out on the veranda) 

Mr. Raymond. I don't think, dear, that when 
Ned is our guest, you ought to avoid him guite so 
pointedly. The minute he comes into the house, 
you go out. It isn't courteous. 

Frances. I didn't mean to be rude, but — I don't 



8o THE GIPSY TRAIL 

want to be alone with him tonight — honestly, I don't. 

Mr. Raymond. You're too sure of Ned. 

Frances. I suppose I am. 

Mr. Raymond. That's the trouble. I believe 
you've been in love with him a long time — and don't 
know it. 

Frances. I wonder. I am awfully fond of him, 
but 

Mr. Raymond. Of course, adventure and ro- 
mance may be all very well in books, but 

Frances. (Passionately ) I hate adventure — I 
hate romance ! 

Mr. Raymond. In any event, it's hardly fair to 
keep him dangling about indefinitely. 

Frances. I suppose it isn't. 

Mr. Raymond. Mind, dear, I'm not urging you, 
one way or another, but if he asks for his answer 
tonight, I think you ought to give it to him defin- 
itely. 

Frances. You're quite right. He shall have his 
answer. 

Mr. Raymond. (Oiiestioningly ) And ? 

Frances. Oh, Father — I don't know yet — but I 
will — when he asks me. 

(John enters along the path from the left. 

Mr. Raymond. That's right, dear. (He goes 
up to the center door, then, seeing John, turns) 
John, your five minutes are up. 

John. All right. Father — I'm coming. 

(Mr. Raymond goes into the hall and out to the 
right. J'^hn faces off left, and stretches out 
both arms in a series of signals) 

Frances. (Watching him in amazement ) John, 
what are you doing? 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 8i 

John. Stretchin'. Good night, sis. (He passes 
lier on wax to tJie center door) 

Frances. (Hugging Jiiiii suddenly) Good night, 
httle brother. 

(She k'sses him and he goes into the hall and out 
to the rig Jit. Left alone, Frances zvalks to the 
pillar left, and stands leaning against it, looking 
out front. MiCTiAEL comes on softly from the 
left, 7valks behind the pillar and approaches her 
from the right. He stands beside her a moment 
before she reaVzes his presence. At last she 
raises her exes and sees him ) 

Frances. How dare you ! Oh, how dare you ! 

Michael. I've come back for you. 

Frances. For mef 

Michael. Yes. I've come to take you away 
with me — tonight. Are you ready? 

Frances. Do you think you can come back 
and 

Michael. Oh, I know I behaved outrageously — 
but never mind that now. It's over and done with 
and — I'm here agaiiL I'm sorry if it hurt you, 
but 

Frances. If it liurt me? You don't mean you 
took our Httle flirtation seriously? 

Michael. Flirtation! What a damnable word! 

F'^.ances. AMiat else can you call it? 

Michael. (With disgust) Flirtation? Do I 
look like a man who would flirt f Do I? Do you 
mean to tell me you were only — flirting F 

Frances. Of course. I saw that you were flirt- 
ing, and I thought you needed a lesson, so I pre- 
tended to want to marry you, and— oh dear, how 
funny you were ! How awfully funny ! 

Michael. Funny? If 

Frances. You blufifed very well for a time— un- 
til you lost your nerve. If you'd only blufifed a 
little longer, it would have been I who ran away. 



82 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Michael. (Seises her roughly by the "mrist, 
draws her to hhn and looks steadily into her eyes. 
Her glance falls) Aha ! I thought so. You did 
care. 

Frances. (Indignantly) I didn't ! I didn't, I 
tell you, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't ! Oh, how can I 
make you believe I didn't ? 

Michael. You can't. You cared — as much as / 
did. I wish we hadn't. I didn't want to love you. 
I didn't want you to love me. 

Frances. I didn't — I don't ! 

Michael. But we couldn't help it. So we might 
as well make the best of it. That's why I'm here. 

Frances. I didn't want you to come. 

Michael. Do you suppose I wanted to come? I 
came because I couldn't help it. I swore I'd forget 
you — I swore it sixty times a day, and the harder 
I swore, the more clearly I saw you. I tried to 
put the ocean between us — I even sailed for Europe ; 
but when we dropped the pilot off Sandy Hook, I 
came back with him. I've been coming back to you 
ever since — fighting against it every inch of the way 
— "but you dragged me back to you — and at last 
I'm here. I belong to you. You belong to me. And 
you're coming with me. 

Frances. I'm not! 

Michael. We're leaving immediately. 

Frances. You're leaving immediately, I hope. 

Michael. You've got to go. I've come to take 
you out of this humdrum life you've always led, to 
save you from it — to carry you away with me into 
my world. It's all planned. We leave tonight on 
a freight steamer for the Northwest woods — come ! 
(He seizes her hand and draws her tozvard the 
right) Come, I say! For, in spite of everything — 
I love you ! 

Frances. No ! (She breaks a7vay from him and 
goes up toward the center door) I hope that this is 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 83 

the last of your ridiculous appearances — and disap- 
pearances. 

(Michael looks at her a moment, then marches off 
left 7vithout a word. As Frances turns to the 
center door, Ned comes into the hall from the, 
right, and out on the veranda) 

Ned. Frances. I've been trying to get a few min- 
utes alone Mnth you ever since dinner, but some- 
how — I don't know — fate seems to have been against 
me. 

Frances. Well, here I am, Ned. (Ned takes 
her arm. and leads her to the ottoman. She sits 
down) 

Ned. It was awfully good of you. Frances, to 
have me out for dinner tonight — and grandma. 

Frances. Why, not at all, Ned. You know I'm 
always glad to see you. 

Ned. Yes, I think you are — (A little pause) 
I was thinking tonight, while we were at dinner — 
there was something so sort of — I don't know — 
domestic— in the way you passed the bread to me, 
that it — it got to me, and — — 

Frances. I suppose you want your answer, Ned. 
Is that it ? 

Ned. Yes, that's it — if vou don't mind. 

Frances. Ned, you've been heavenly to me, and 
I haven't always been very nice to yoti ; bttt you 
were never resentful, never angry! 

Ned. Why, anyone would be just that way to 
you. 

Frances. Oh, no. they wouldn't. T kno7v. 

Ned. I don't want you to think I'm impatient. 

Frances. Aren't vou? 

Ned. Not a bit. That is, of course, I'd like aw- 
fully well to know, but — -if you aren't able to tell 
me just yet. why — of course, I'll wait. 



84 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Frances. How loner? 

Ned. As long as you want me to. I wouldn't 
want to hurry you. 

Frances. (Almost to herself) If I don't know 
now, I'll never know. 

Ned. I've thought that, too. 

Frances. Ned, I don't love you as I think I 
should, if I'm going to marry you. 

Ned. You don't love anyone else, do you? 

Frances. No ! 

Ned. I guess that will do, won't it ? You know — 
I don't expect you to be perfectly crazy over me — in 
a romantic way, I mean. 

Frances. Don't you? 

Ned. No. I don't. But I love you and — I can 
take care of you and — do things for you and — I'lu 
almost sure I would make a very kind husband, 
Frances. 

Frances. I know you would. 

Ned. Sometimes I think you care more for me 
than you think you do. 

Frances. That's just wh?t F^.tli-^^r said. 

Ned. Did he? By Jove, I hope he's right. Oh, 
Frances, if you would just keep on depending on 
me — I'd never fail you — vou know that. 

Frances. Oh, I do. Ned — nnd it's such a com- 
fort to have someone you can deoend on — someone 
whose ways you know — who thinks as you do — who 
never surprises you 

f Stiles e)iters the hall from the left) 

Stiles. (Calling into the room to the right of the 
hall) Mr. Raymond ! 

(Ned looks up resentfully at this interruption. 

Mr. Raymond. (Appearing in the hall from the 
right) What is it, Stiles? 

Stiles. (Handing him a card on a silver tray) 
A gentleman to see you, sir. 



THE GIPSY TRAIL ^5 

Mr. Raymond. (Looking at the card) Rudder — 
Mr. Michael Rudder? (He comes out on the ver- 
anda. Stiles remains in the hall) Don't know 
anv Rudder. Do vou, Frances ? 

Frances. No, Father — I never heard the name 
before. 

Mr. RAYAroND. Where have you put him? 

Stiles. He's in the front hall. sir. 

Mr. Raymond. I'll see him out here. 

(Stiles goes out to the left) 

Ned. Come. Frances, we'll go into the library. 
I don't think anyone is in there. 
(He goes to the center door and holds it open for her. 

Frances. In a minute, Ned. (Ned goes into the 
hall and out to the right. Frances turns to Mr. 
Raymond) Father, I just wanted to tell you: I've 
decided to marry Ned. 

^Ir. Raymond. (Delighted) No! Oh, my dear, 
I am so pleased — so awfully glad. 

Frances. Are you? I thought you would be. 

Mr. Raymond. The very minute I get rid of 
this tiresome man, I'll be in to speak to you both, 
my dear child ! 

(Frances goes info the hall and out to the right. 
A moment later Stiles enters the hall from the 
left, followed bv Michael, zvho has taken off 
his coat and is' in full evening dress. Stiles 
opens the screen door. Michael com.es out on 
the veranda, and Stiles goes out to the left) 

]\Ir. Raymond. (Not recognizing him) Good 
evening. 

Michael. Good evening. 

Mr. Raymond. Won't you sit down. Mr. — Mr. — 
(With a furtive glance at the card) Mr. Rudder. 

Michael. You don't remember me ! 



86 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

Mr. Raymond. Well, the fact is, just for the 
moment — I have a most unhappy memory for faces. 

Michael. Look at me. 

Mr. Raymond. (Recognizing him, zvith great 
surprise) Jones! 

Michael. Yes. I believe I zvas Jones at that 
particular stage of my career. 

Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) How dare you come 
here? 

Michael. I beg your pardon? 

Mr. Raymond. How dare you come here, I say, 
after your atrocious behavior to my daughter? 

Michael. Ah! you've heard about it? 

Mr. Raymond. I should say I had. and let me 
tell you 

Michael. That's splendid ! I was afraid you 
hadn't, and that would have meant very tedious ex- 
planations. As it . is, I can come straight to the 
point. 

Mr. Raymond. I have nothing to say to you, 
sir — nothing. I wish to hold no communication 
with you — nor does my daughter. 

Michael. I have come to address myself to you. 
You seem surprised to see me in these accursed 
clothes ? 

Mr. Raymond. \\'ell, your former appearance 
was not quite so 

Michael. Correct? No, it was not! This is the 
first time in years that I have appeared in the habili- 
ments of so-called society. I wish I might think it 
was the last, but my mind misgives me. 

Mr. Raymond. (Grimly amused ) And was it to 
do me honor that you took this rash step? 

Michael. Practically, yes. Your daughter, I 
regret to inform you, is incurably conventional. To 
approach her in any other manner than that ap- 
proved by generations of stiff-necked forebears is 
to court disaster. Behold me, therefore, come be- 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 87 

fore you to make formal application for your 
daughter's hand. 

Mr. Raymond. What ! You are proposing to 
me for her ? 

Michael. I am. I need scarcely tell you that 
such a ceremony strikes me as ridiculous. Who 
your daughter marries is her own business and that 
of her future husband. You ought to have nothing 
to do with it. 

Mr. Raymond. Well, upon mv word. I intend 
to! 

Michael. I was sure you would. And so I am 
following that custom which the world has decreed 
as strictly correct in this emergency. I will now, 
with your permission, proceed to state my qualifica- 
tions for becoming your son-in-law. To me this 
seems a disgusting process. If I were seeking the 
position of butler I could do no more. 

Mr. Raymond. I tell you it is useless. Neither 
my daughter nor I would even consider 

Michael. Stop ! When you have heard my 
qualifications, I defy you to reject me. From any 
human and rational standpoint, I may make a 
wretched husband ; but from the worldly point of 
view, I am so confoundedly and disgracefully 
eligible that no business man in the world could 
refuse me his daughter. 

Mr. Raymond. (Sitting dozvn in the chair to the 
left of the right pillar) Well, if you insist — but I 
tell you in advance 

Michael. T am thirty-one years old. which age, 
I am informed by authorities, is absolutely the 
prime of life. I am in the pink of perfect physical 
condition. (He extracts from his pocket a sheaf 
of papers and hands one to Mr. Raymond) Here 
is a report from my physician, Dr. Edward Grimsby, 
of New York. I am the son of Patrick Rudder and 
Margaret, his wife, nee Nicoll, both deceased. A 



88 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

copy of my birth certificate. (He hands Mr. Ray- 
MON another paper) My grandfather, Dennis 
Rudder, came here from Dubhn in 1847. He was 
the youngest son of Seumas WiUiam O'Dowd Mar- 
tin Patrick, thirty-seventh Lord Dromore, and, Hke 
all other Irishmen, was lineally descended from the 
Gaelic kings. His family tree. (He hands Mr. 
Raymond another paper) ]\Iy mother was a Nicoll 
— need I say more ? Her family tree. (He hands 
Mr. Raymond anotJier paper) I find, on investi- 
gation, that I have three uncles, ten aunts, one 
grand-uncle and fourteen first cousins, to say noth- 
ing of a large collection of second cousins and first 
cousins once removed. Most of them, I find, be- 
long to wdiat is technically known as "New York 
Society." or, in the more remote suburban districts, 
as "The Smart Set." And, so far as I have had 
opportunity to judge — for my acquaintance with 
them has been of the briefest and most casual 
nature — they do not, as a whole, run much below 
the necessarily low^ average of relatives. 

Mr. Raymond. Great h-^avens. 

Michael. My father left a large fortune, which 
he acquired, I am glad to be able to inform you, 
almost by accident, and not with malice afore- 
thought. It is under the management of my trus- 
tees, The Guaranty Title and Trust Company of 
New York, and, according to their last report — 
(He picks up anotJier paper and reads front it) 
— amounts to two million, seven hundred and forty- 
four thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven dol- 
lars and thirty-six cents. Here is the list. As you 
will note, it is invested in conservative securities, 
which return me, I am informed, an annual income 
of one hundred and forty-six thousand seven hun- 
dred and forty-three dollars. (He hands Mr. Ray- 
mond the list, which lie seises and reads eagerly, 
although he has scarcely glanced at the others) 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 89 

Mr. Raymond. This is perfectly colossal ! 

Michael. I have never hitherto made use of 
those stupid organizations known as clubs, but I 
am a member of most of them — the Union League, 
the Racquets, the Players, the Lotus ; and I am told 
that if I live the allotted course of man's existence, 
I will be a member of the University Club before I 
die. 

Mr. Raymond. What next ? 

Michael. I am an Episcopalian by birth, and 
testimonials to my moral character are herein en- 
closed from the Bishop of the diocese of New York, 
the Bishop Coadjut-or and the Very Reverend Dean 
Dalton, rector of my hereditary church, that of St. 
Michael. But having learned from Frances that 
your family are Baptists. I took the precaution to 
secure a letter also from Dr. Frederick Glossop Jor- 
dan, minister of the First Baptist Church of New 
York. (He hands Mr. Raymond several envelopes) 

Mr. Raymond. Is there anything more ? 

Michael. Let me see? Have I forgotten any- 
thing? Oh, only a few small matters. I have a 
box at the Metropolitan, three houses in New York, 
with country places at Smithtown, Newport. Aikin, 
and a shooting box in the Adirondacks. I believe 
there is a yacht, too — there used to be. Should your 
interests be more largely social, I have prepared a 
list of ushers. (He hands Mr. Raymond another 
paper) Most of them will, I believe, be known to 
you. They are, I am told, rather notable in the 
world of society. Personally, most of them bore 
me to tears, but I am told they will make our wed- 
ding a very remarkable function. It also occurred 
to me that, as a business man, you might consider it 
a disgrace to have a son-in-law who was not em- 
ployed. I am prepared to humor your preiudices. 
Here are letters from several of my father's friends, 
offering me jobs. (As he reads the name of each 



90 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

firm, he hands Mr. Raymond an envelope) U. S. 
Steel Corporation, J. P. Morgan and Company, 
National City Bank, New York Central, Bethlehem 
Steel — you may select the job yourself. One is as 
stupid and disagreeable as the other. 

Mr. Raymond. But, as I recall it, you did not 
wish to marry ? 

Michael. I did not! 

Mr. Raymond. Nothing could induce you to give 
up your way of life. 

Michael. She won't have me otherwise. 

Mr. Raymond. And you'll give up all that for 
the privilege of becoming my daughter's — young 
man? 

Michael. Call me her beau and be done with it ! 
I will ! 

Mr. Raymond. Well, this is very flattering. But 
in spite of your concessions, and I admit they must 
be somewhat galling to a man of your constitu- 
tion (He rises) I have the honor to refuse 

your offer. 

Michael. To refuse! How can you? What 
possible reason — Look at these papers ! You can't 
have read them. 

Mr. Raymond. My dear sir, you are, as you 
say, ostentatiously eligible. There is only one rea- 
son why I am constrained to refuse your very inter- 
esting offer, and that reason is that my daughter — 
(He chuckles to himself) But I must not be selfish. 
Pardon me. (He goes to the center door and calls) 
Frances ! 

Frances (In rigid) Yes, Father? 

Michael. I am addressing myself to yon, sir. 

Mr. Ra^'mond. (Calling) Will you come out 
here a moment, my dear? 

Michael. It is your consent to our marriage that 
I am seeking. Once that is obtained, there will be 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 91 

Tio difficulty whatever in obtaining- your daughter's. 
(He turns to the left of the center door) 

Mr. Raymond. Your assurance is 90 superb that 
I really hate to see it dashed. 

Frances. (Coynes into the hall from the right, 
and out upon the veranda. She starts as she sees 
Michael) You! (Michael bows without speak- 
ing) But — but — you don't look a bit like yourself. 

Michael. Thank you. 

Mr. Raymond. My dear, this gentleman — Mr. 
Rudder — has come to me to propose in formal style 
for your hand. He has left with me this large sheaf 
of testimonials which I am sure it will entertain you 
to peruse in your leisure moments. He has even 
signified his willingness to give up entirely his vaga- 
bond way of life and to become a conventional 
member of society. And all for your sake, my dear. 
It's gratifying. (He lays the testimonials dozvn on 
the taborette) 

Frances. You're willing to give it up after all? 

Michael. Look at me ! (Frances laughs at his 
crestfallen appearance) There is your. answer! 

Frances. (Laughing louder and louder) Oh, 
please do forgive me, but — oh, you are so funny ! 
And all these beautiful testimonials! Why, they 
must have taken weeks of patient effort. 

Michael. When I came here tonight, I knew in 
my heart you w,ould never accept me as I was. I 
really made my surrender two weeks ago, when I 
began to collect those things. 

Mr. Raymond. I may as well tell you, sir, that 
my daughter is about to announce her engagement 
to Mr. Edward Andrews. 

Michael. (In great surprise) To Andrews! 

Frances. (Smiling) You heard what my father 
said. 



92 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

(Ned comes into the hall from the right and out 
upon the veranda) 

Ned. Did anyone call me? Oh, I beg pardon. I 

thought (He recognises Michael) Oh — it's 

you 

Michael. Yes, Andrews, it is I. 

Ned. I didn't think you would come back. 

Michael. Nor did I think when I did that it 
would be simply to congratulate you. 

Ned. I don't know what you are talking about. 

Michael. Your engagement to Frances. 

Ned. But I am not engaged to Miss Raymond. 

Mr. Raymond. What ! 

Ned. No. She has iust refused me. 

Michael. Frances ! 

Mr. Raymond. But — but — you said 

Frances. I know I did, Father. And I meant 
to. But when the time came I — I found I couldn't. 
(Turning to Ned) Oh, Ned, you do understand, 
don't you ? It wouldn't have been fair to you — feel- 
ing as I did. I'm sorry. 

Ned. Oh, it's all right. Don't feel badly about 
it. I don't see why people think they've always got 
to be fair to me. 

(He goes into the hall and out to the right. Mich- 
ael goes impnlsively to Frances, and is about 
to take her in his arms, zvhen lie notices Mr. 
Raymond's stern glance is upon them. He 
stops, and takes from his pocket a small jewel- 
er's box, out of tvhich he takes an engagement 
ring and with a defiant look at Mr. Raymond, 
places it on her finger. A smile slozvly spreads 
itself over Mr. Raymond's face as he zvatches 
thetn. It grozi's at last to a hearty laugh, in 
which Michael and Frances join him. Then, 
still laughing, lie goes zvithont a ivord into the 



THE GIPSY TRAIL 93 

hall and out to the right. Michael leads 
Frances doum to the ottoman, seats her and 
sits beside her) 

Michael. I suppose there'll be a big wedding? 

Frances. Yes. . . . 

Michael. And your friends will throw rice at 
us? 

Frances. Yes. . . . 

Michael. And then there'll be a honeymoon — 
in hotels? 

F'rances. Yes.. . . . 

Michael. And then we'll come back and live in 
a house? 

Frances. Yes. . . . 

Michael. And have trouble with servants ? 

Frances. Yes. . . . 

Michael. And then perhaps there'll be children? 

Frances. Yes. . . . 

Michael. And we'll watch youth rise in them as 

we grow old together ? 

Frances. Yes. . . . 

Michael. It ought to be wonderful ! 

TJie Curtain Falls 



94 THE GIPSY TRAIL 

NOTES-ON PRODUCTION->^''''^^';V(r 

It is not essential that the first act be set exactly 
as described in the stage directions. It will be 
sufficient if the entrances, windows and furniture 
be placed as shown in the scene-plot. The stock 
scenery of any theatre can be lashed together for 
the house wall, and the ends of the porch can be 
masked with shrubbery. It is not essential that the 
porch be elevated by a platform, although if this is 
available it will add considerably to the effect. 

"The Gipsy Trail," words by Rudyard Kipling, 
music by Tod B. Galloway, is published by Theodore 
Fresser Co., 1712 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

"The Bandolero," words and music by Leslie 
Stuart, is published by G. Schirmer, New York 
City. 

Both can be obtained from any good music store. 

A spotlight should be placed in the entrance-hall 
right, in Act II, and trained upon the armchair 
down right, so that, in the dark scene, it will fall 
upon Frances and Michael. But where a spot- 
light cannot be obtained, a small table may be placed 
beside the armchair down right, with a small table- 
lamp on it, which can be turned on by AIichael 
immediately after his entrance and will throw its 
light upon Frances' face during this scene. 

At the end of Act II it will be found best to 
drop the curtain the moment Ned's idea has reg- 
istered with the audience and they begin to laugh. 
"On Spider Lake" has generally been found the 
most effective cue for the curtain. 

If a tandem bicycle is not obtainable for use in 
Act III, a seat can be attached to the front of an 
ordinary bicycle. 



